Between Kings
by lonelyriver
Summary: Sequel to Love and War. Hatred and ambition can lead a kingdom to ruin. Yuuri/Wolfram. Semi-hiatus.
1. Chapter One: Homecoming

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Kyou Kara Maou or any of its characters. All of the original characters were, however, created by me.

**Beta-ed by:** G, whose support through all these years will forever be appreciated.

**Warnings:** Language, violence, general dark/adult themes, angst, sexual content, sexual content of dubious consent, blood, torture, and OC!character death.

**Pairings:** Yuuri/Wolfram. Other side pairings will be mentioned, including Murata/Elizabeth and Lyron/Wolfram.

**Setting:** Seven years post Season 2. Three years after the events of _Love and War_. Yuuri is almost 23, Wolfram is 89 (17), and Greta is 18. As with _Love and War_, please ignore all OVAs as well as the entirety of Season 3.

**Rating: **M

**A/N: **This chapter is more or less the same as it was, I simply updated it to something closer to my current writing style. Some superfluous paragraphs have been omitted. Others have been simplified. Certain pieces of dialogue are somewhat different, but the results of each conversation are the same.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Between Kings<strong>_

by Mikage

**Chapter One – Homecoming**

It began, as all ominous things seemed to, in a dimly lit room.

There were no candles to light the way. After all, they could not afford to attract any unwanted attention. The chances of discovery were already high out without giving away their location. They could not risk an encounter with the wrong people.

Of course, in these circumstances, with the future of the monarchy at stake, most people would be considered the wrong people.

A man stood by one of the windows. One of his hands pulled the heavy, dust-ridden curtains apart to look onto the ground below.

The accommodations he'd chosen for this meeting were as discreet and inconspicuous as he could manage in such a populated, bustling place as Blood Pledge Castle, where maids scurried about every hall, and each wing and tower was monitored by guards.

Save one.

The old guest wing, once elegantly decorated and as lively as the remainder of the caste, now stood in disrepair, abandoned, closed off, and decrepit. The rooms were dusty; the antique furniture was covered by drab white sheets gone gray over time. Many of the windows were boarded up. The building itself was infrequently cleaned, seldom visited, and rarely open for anyone but the King and Prince Consort. It was guarded only on the outside, kept as gloomy and desolate as it had been when the Bearbees had hatched.

It was the perfect choice. The _only _choice. A meeting in town was out of the question; so many well-to-do men and women gathering in one place would attract too much attention. Chancing a rendezvous in any other wing of the castle would have been just as risky. They could not take the chance of the guards being alerted. Years he'd spent waiting for this moment. He would not, under any circumstances, allow anyone to come between him and the revenge he felt was rightly his to claim.

Through the grimy window he could see the King in the midst of a spirited spar with Lord Weller. His black jacket was removed, his collar loose and sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his hair a disheveled mess of black. It was not the image of a sovereign the Kingdom was entirely accustomed to, but one many inevitably grew to appreciate. The twenty-fifth Demon King had been ineffective. Cecilie likewise.

King Yuuri was, in certain ways, ill-suited for the throne. Yet perhaps it was that which made him most suitable. His Majesty's young age brought youth back to an old, haggard country. His fondness for common life brought relief to a previously exhausted treasury. His Majesty was a friend to the common man and, for the most part, amiable and welcoming to his nobility. He encouraged compromise, forever seeking a solution that would bring his country to everlasting peace and prosperity.

He was not a great king, but he was a good king. That was enough for now. Greatness would come later.

Once that pest Wolfram von Bielefeld was removed, His Majesty would not longer be anchored down and confined to mediocrity.

"Father..."

A second figure approached from behind and came to a stop beside him. She wore a gown of deep blue, her rich brown hair tumbling in curls over her shoulders. Her green eyes were as sharp and vigilant as his own.

"How can you walk so calmly into danger?" she said.

"The danger will be well worth the reward, Elise," he answered. He was careful not to pull the curtain aside too far, lest it be noticed by one of the guards outside.

"You oppose powered men," Elise cautioned him. "Lord von Voltaire, Lord Weller, Lord von Christ, Prince Wolfram—"

"Prince Wolfram is a threat only because he shares the King's bed. He is more a child than a man."

Outside, His Majesty parried an attack from his practice partner, perhaps not with the greatest skill, but with a great deal of determination.

"The rest are powerful only because they found favor with the previous Queen and assumed control of the country when she no longer saw fit to do so."

"Even so," Elise continued, "surely you can see how easily your plans could fail."

"They will not fail," he said.

"And if they do?" she asked. "Would you have me watch as you're tried for treason?"

He turned from the window and released his hold on the curtain. The room was once again cast in shadow as sunlight fought through the frayed and dusty fabric. He faced his daughter, noted the worry in her eyes, and brought his hands up to frame her face. She stared back at him with a chastening frown, her gaze imploring.

"You must understand," he told her. "If I am ever to avenge your brother—"

"Avenging Ehren is not worth the risk to your life, Father."

"—If I am ever to save His Majesty and this country from the greed and corruption the Bielefelds—"

"His Majesty does not seem as if he wishes to be saved from them," Elise countered. "Least of all Prince Wolfram. He is infatuated. Everyone knows of their insatiable appetite for one another."

"Be that as it may, my dear, they are hardly inseparable," he said. His lips twisted in amusement. "If that were so, His Majesty would never send Prince Wolfram off to Cimaron."

"Diplomatic missions to the lands of our allies is hardly the same as exile."

"He is only infatuated because Prince Wolfram is all he has ever known. Men are slaves to pleasure, Elise. Whatever his faults, Prince Wolfram is skilled in pleasuring the King."

"His Majesty will look to no one else,"

"He will. When he is no longer blinded by that willful brat he calls a husband."

Elise said nothing further; she simply stared at him.

"You will see," he said, caressing one of her cheeks. "All in due time, Elise. All in due time."

A noise reached them then—the tapping of a heel on the wooden floors, the quiet swish of fabric around a corner.

The man by the window released his daughter to peer about the abandoned chamber. He was wary but expectant. The rippling of a tapestry on one side of the room warned him of another's presence. Slowly the tapestry was pushed aside, and from a secret passage behind it appeared the tall, willowy figure of the aging Winifred von Yale, haughty and stern, her face perpetually sent into a frown.

Only a moment later, she was joined by the rest. They entered the room by different means, corridors and passages he had outline for them. Each separate route was carefully devised so that their coming to the same room would not be noticed. Marlena von Grantz—young but fierce—came trough another hall hidden behind a movable bookcase. Griselda von Hassel pushed through an inconspicuous seam in the wall and greeted her fellow ladies with a curt nod. She entered with her nose lifted high in the air, as if to make up for her poor height and weathered looks.

Only Auberon von Bielefeld arrived by the door. He entered quietly and shut the door with a soft click. This was followed by a second click as the lock was twisted into place—just as instructed.

They were greeted with an impassive expression, as green eyes settled upon Lord von Bielefeld. It was a look of suspicion.

Lord von Bielefeld's inclusion had been heavily debated, not because of any fondness Auberon might feel for their target (the years had proven no such fondness existed), but because of the personal offense committed by the Bielefeld's against his family. He and Auberon may agree on many things, but family was family, and Auberon—in spite of his complaints—was loyal to his, the brother most of all.

"My friends," the man by the window welcomed them. His arms made a grand gesture, opening as if to embrace them. "I have been waiting most anxiously."

"Spare us, Julius," Marlena began. She speared him with an impatient glare. "Why have you called us here?"

"To the point as always, I see," Julius von Mannheim observed.

"We cannot afford to waste time," Winifred said. Her voice was as icy as the penetrating look in her eyes. "We do not have the luxury of waiting for you to explain yourself. We have duties to attend to."

"I am sure you do."

And yet neither Marlena nor Griselda saw to the military or matters of state. Winifred herself was close to retiring, if she didn't waste away to old age first.

This, of course, was better left unsaid. Julius swallowed down the argument.

"You led us to believe this was an important matter," Griselda added, folding her arms beneath her ample bosom.

"It is, indeed."

"Then get on with it."

Julius looked between the Aristocrats before gazing upon his daughter. Her expression was far from impressed.

He knew the Aristocrats had little reason to trust him. For nearly half a century, he had not allied himself with either of the two factions the Aristocrats had split into during the war with Cimaron. He chose instead to wade between them. It was important to maintain his position over the army, and to make friends with whomever it was necessary to preserve the influence he had at court. He could not afford to isolate himself from anyone, even if he should despise them.

His relationship with Lord von Voltaire was stable. Indeed, of Queen Cecilie's three sons, Julius respected Gwendal most of all. They did not always see eye-to-eye, but each had well-respected military accomplishments. They spoke to one another frequently, and passed information between themselves and their spies. Likewise, Julius had always regarded Lord von Christ as a superb swordsman.

Others he cared notably less for.

Odell von Wincott was old and soft-hearted. Densham von Karbelnikoff was too passive.

And that insufferable von Bielefeld _brat_...

There were two people Julius despised most in all the world: Wolfgang von Bielefeld and his bastard son.

Julius's hatred of them surpassed even his loyalty to the King.

He spared another glance toward Auberon and watched him with increased suspicion, more so now that Auberon had yet to speak. Julius knew he would have to mind his choice of words. He must make his plans seem less like a work of revenge and more a necessity for the country's continued prosperity.

"I have requested your presence here to discuss a matter which is of the utmost importance to the continuation of the monarchy," he said. He weighed and measured his words carefully.

"That being?" Winifred prompted him.

Julius chose not to shift his gaze in her direction, but instead kept his eyes locked on Auberon as he said, "Prince Wolfram."

A tense silence followed. Julius could sense the mutual dislike for the subject. Yet they remained anxious, for the King had made it quite clear that this was a subject best left alone.

For three years, Wolfram von Bielefeld had made it explicitly clear that he wished to remove the Aristocrats from power. That was not an option Julius or his comrades intended to allow.

Auberon met Julius with a level stare. His face betrayed nothing of what he felt upon hearing his nephew brought up for discussion.

"What of him?" he asked. Auberon's voice was gruff. He seemed almost disinterested, as if he tired of hearing about his younger brother's bastard.

"He has not conducted himself in a manner many of us would expect from a Prince Consort," Julius said. "It seems he has acquired a few of his mother's old habits. He wastes enormous amounts of money on clothing and unnecessary social functions. Surely you're all aware that taxes have been increased to pay for his expenditures."

Winifred's brow raised in interest. Griselda's thin lips twisted into a sneer. Marlene's eyes stared in outrage.

But Auberon's expression never changed.

"Both His Majesty and my brother have informed me that the money gained from the new tax has been used to finance new additions to the Royal Navy," he argued.

Julius took the information in stride, but could not stop himself from commenting, "And your brother is sure to know, is he not?"

"I should think so," Auberon bit back, "seeing as His Majesty has seen fit to make him an Admiral."

"Regardless," Marlena cut in before Julius could counter with another acidic remark, "it is true that Prince Wolfram makes frequent use of the funds of the Royal Treasury, whether the new tax is meant to replenish it or not."

"Precisely," Julius agreed.

He paused to take a breath, settling himself so as not to make it appear as if he were riled by Auberon's defense of Wolfgang. The Admiral von Bielefeld was undeserving of such loyalty.

"What is it that you propose then?" Griselda said. "That we speak to the King again? It has never proven useful before, Julius. You know how His Majesty adores him."

Elise shot Julius a look, as if her point had been proven. Julius chose to ignore it.

"I propose," he said, scanning their faces to make sure he had their undivided attention, "that Prince Wolfram be removed from power, not by the King, but by us."

Griselda snorted at the same time Marlena released an amused chuckle.

"We've discussed this before," Marlena said. "An annulment would be impossible. They've long since consummated their marriage—"

"Many times over," Winifred muttered in displeasure.

"—and His Majesty is enamored of him. How are we to convince him that the marriage is more a detriment to the country than a blessing? He shows no concern for what money Prince Wolfram spends. I would hardly be surprised if the King encouraged him to do so."

"His Majesty is captivated by him, yes," Julius allowed, "but that should not stop our efforts to strip him of his title as Prince Consort. If we do not remove Wolfram then he will surely remove us."

"But how are we to manage it?" Griselda asked. Her voice took on an obvious tone of disbelief.

"I assure you that I have the means to do so."

"And if that does not work?" Winifred said. "What then? Will we not all be stripped of out positions and banished for making the attempt?"

"It will work," Julius insisted.

"But how are we to know?"

It was more opposition than Julius had expected. He had assumed that the ladies' abhorrence of the former Queen Cecilie and the current Prince Wolfram would be enough to earn their support. He'd been depending on them, especially as Auberon would likely prove the most difficult. He could not afford their unwillingness to cooperate. If he was to do this, he needed their guarantee.

"I have information that may sway the King's trust if the original plan does not provide the desired outcome," Julius said.

"And what, pray tell, would that be?" Marlena demanded.

"I cannot tell you, but I assure you that this endeavor has been planned to the last detail. The plan _will_ succeed."

That none of them had bothered to ask for the details was not lost to him. He hoped, for the time being at least, to keep it a secret until he'd ascertained how deep Auberon's loyalties lied.

"What _I _need to know is whether or not I have your support," Julius continued. He held his arms open again in a gesture of innocence and defenselessness. "I am at your mercy."

Marlena did not look appeased; however, Griselda and Winifred appeared as if their interest had bene piqued. Auberon's expression, on the other hand, had not changed. He did not look as if he trusted Julius with the plan. Julius focused his gaze upon him again, beseeching him to acquiece.

Finally, Auberon said, "Very well. Let us see what you can accomplish. But know this, Julius," he added, staring at him with a warning in his eyes, "if you fail, I will not come to your defense. I will not thwart you, but I refused to be any more involved than that. The Bielefelds can afford no further accusations of treason."

Once, Julius might have frowned over the memories of a trial thirty years in the past. Instead, his mouth twisted into a confident smirk.

"I assure you, my Lord Bielefeld, I shall not fail," he said.

* * *

><p>"It feels so good to be home," Greta sighed.<p>

Blood Pledge Castle was indeed a most welcome sight.

Wolfram sat astride his mount. She was perfectly groomed and dressed for her ride through the capital; her white coat had been brushed to gleaming, her mane braided and threaded through with black ribbons. Wolfram could still hear the rowdy crowd behind them. They'd cheered for them both, hoisting banners and littering the streets with flower petals, crying their names in adulation. Normally Wolfram grew weary of such displays. Not so this time, he was so relieved to be home.

Yet even as Wolfram had smiled and waved and accepted the bouquet of Beautiful Wolframs gifted to him by the town mayor, his attention had been focused beyond the capital city. His eyes, for that brief time, had been for his people. But his heart, as always, was somewhere else entirely.

Blood Pledge Castle loomed larger and larger before them as their traveling party scaled the path that led to its gates. Wolfram had not grown to appreciate the sight until his travels grew more frequent; his trips beyond the borders of the Great Demon Kingdom had been practically nonexistent until Yuuri came along. A King who intended to unify the Humans and the Demon Tribe was never satisfied cloistered inside the castle walls.

Approaching the castle now, Wolfram thought there would never be a more comforting sight.

"I'm going to miss it," Greta said. She rode beside him, smiling wistfully up at the castle.

Wolfram tore his gaze away from their destination to stare instead at his daughter. Greta was breathtakingly beautiful at eighteen. She was of a darker beauty than the native born Demon Tribeswoman, but even more beautiful for it. Her russet hair, once worn short and frizzy, rippled down her back in glossy, elegant curls. And her eyes, once so wide with youthful exuberance, stared with a keen intelligence from a face that was less a girl's and more a young woman's.

She held herself with confidence and regality, straight backed with her head held high as Wolfram had always encouraged her to, and she wore purple—the color of human royalty—with the same natural splendidness with which Yuuri wore the color black.

Wolfram though he should be distressed that Greta was growing so quickly; he should be upset by her impending departure and approaching marriage. He was—she was forever his joyful, bright eyed Princess—but more than that he felt a deep sense of pride.

Somehow, he and Yuuri had managed to raise her well.

"The gates will always be open for you," Wolfram said. He could have easily frowned in sadness but chose to smile at her instead. "I'll expect a visit at least once a year."

Greta laughed. It sounded so charming and cheerful, so lively, that Wolfram felt his heart give an anxious flutter in his chest.

"And I'll expect you to come to Cimaron," she said.

Wolfram made a face. "You know I hate to travel," he said.

"You hate sailing," Greta corrected him.

"It all amounts to the same thing when we have to travel by boat to get anywhere."

"You could come across the border," she said.

"It would take longer than sailing."

"Well, you'll have to settling on something," Greta told him. "My feelings will be hurt if you never want to see me."

"I'll always want to see you," Wolfram said.

He would have reached out to stroke her hair but it wasn't so difficult to do on horseback.

"I'm sure you'll miss me terribly," Greta said. She eyed him with a cheeky grin she must have adopted from Anissina. "You'll make a great show of it when the wedding's over, sobbing and crying and carrying on like Gunter."

Wolfram snorted but didn't exactly deny it. Greta may in fact be correct. He didn't say so, of course. He couldn't afford to embarrass himself with such public displays. It would take every ounce of willpower to control himself when the time came.

They crossed through the castle gates together. Wolfram ignored the guards who manned the posts at the front of the castle. Instead, his eyes came to rest upon the group of figures that congregated by the front steps. From a distance they were only identifiable by the color of their clothing. He was mildly disappointed to note that Yuuri was not among them.

His mother stood at the fore, clothed in her usual black, long blonde hair glistening beneath the high noon sun. Around her stood Elizabeth in her customary red, Katherine Algren in her simple attire and modest apron, and Lady Elise von Mannheim, looking stern and severe in deep blue. Smaller figures flitted about—Alexei with his arm lifted in a spirited wave, Brigitta struggling to remove herself from Lady Elise's strict clutches, and Merry, nestled in Katherine's arms but watching alertly, a single thumb raised to his mouth.

Wolfram pulled his horse to a stop and climbed out of the saddle without waiting for the approaching groomsmen to assist him. He made his way to the group before the stairs. It seemed as if his mother would reach him first, until Brigitta managed to break away from Lady Elise. She pelted toward him to fling her little arms around his legs. Alexei followed at a more subdued pace, but seemed no less excited. Shy and reserved as he usually was, Alexei nonetheless failed to restrain a large smile.

"Prince Wolfram! Prince Wolfram!" Brigitta cheered. She jumped in place with her arms around him, tilting her head back to look up at him. The bonnet that covered her hair had come loose, slipping back on her head precariously.

"Brigitta! Brigitta!" Wolfram copied her.

She giggled amusedly. Wolfram crouched down to fix her bonnet and tuck a few flyaway strands of blonde hair beneath it.

"Prince Wolfram, I missed you!"

"Did you?" he said. He received a vigorous nod in return. "I hope the presents I have for you will make up for my long absence."

"You brought presents?!" she gasped, eyes going wide with excitement.

"Of course. They're packed away in my luggage, so you'll have to wait patiently for them," he told her kindly," and you'll only be able to see them if you've been a good girl while I've been gone."

"I've been very good! I minded my manners and went to bed on time, and I brought King Yuuri flowers and said they were from you just like you told me to, and he liked them very much!"

Wolfram smiled and patted one of Brigitta's rosy cheeks. Then he looked to Alexei as his nephew inched closer. "How are your studies fairing?" Wolfram asked him.

Alexei beamed with pride. "Gunter said I can read more than moderately well now," he replied, looking pleased with himself for not stumbling over the world "moderately."

"You're doing very well," Wolfram gushed. "Would you read to me latter? I'd love to hear a story."

Alexei's nod was almost as vigorous and animated as Brigitta's had been.

A shadow fell over them as Lady Elise arrived to retrieve her charges. Wolfram set Brigitta back and stood to be the same height as the noblewoman. He was made to wait a few moments longer than he would have liked for her to dip him a quick, shallow curtsy. She failed to honor him with the respec tof demurely lowering her eyes.

Wolfram squashed the desire to order that she try again.

"Your Majesty," Elise greeted him in a clipped tone.

"Lady von Mannheim," Wolfram replied, gaze hard and voice icy.

Elise took Brigitta by the hand and led her a few paces away, muttering a lecture about the proper manner in which to greet returning royalty. Wolfram snorted, as it didn't seem as if Elise had a proper grasp of it either. He brushed passed her with a cold air and didn't bother to avoid bumping her shoulder. She must know already and didn't care that he abhorred her. He was fairly certain the feeling was mutual.

While Greta came forward to greet Alexei, Wolfram moved to accept his mother's embrace. She hugged him tightly, kissed his cheeks and brushed her fingers through his hair like he was still a child. Then she held him at arm's length to look him over, as if to make sure he was still growing properly after more than a month away.

"You could so with some more sun," she said. She touched his face and peered at him closely. "You look pale."

"I'm always pale, Mother," he reminded her. "In any case, Cimaron is still quite cool this time of year. The skies were overcast for much of our stay."

"You'll have to spend more time outdoors now that you've returned. Too much time indoors is unhealthy. I suspect you were ill for most of the journey."

"Your suspicions are accurate, of course," another voice replied in Wolfram's stead.

Wolfram didn't need to turn around to know that is father had come up behind him. Truly, he didn't understand why his mother remained fond of his father, or why Yuuri kept him around, when they both knew how strained Wolfram's relationship was with him. Yuuri had taken such a liking to him that Wolfram's father was seen around court more often these days than when Wolfram's mother had been Queen. So impressed was he with Wolfgang von Bielefeld that Yuuri had more or less appointed the Captain-turned-Admiral solely responsible for royal sea passage.

While Wolfram had no issue acknowledging that his father made a wonderful Captain and indeed deserved the elevated post Yuuri had seen fit to grant him, Wolfram could not quell the discomfort he felt whenever his father was made part of his escort. When he could, Wolfram did his best to overlook him. When that failed, Wolfram was left to clench his teeth or bite his tongue around the number of acidic marks he would have liked to have made.

"Wolf," his mother gushed, leaving Wolfram by the stairs to greet her ex-husband with a tenderness and a concern one would not normally expect from someone who'd been divorced for three-quarters of a century. "Darling, I hope you'll stay a while."

"Only for as long as His Majesty has need of me."

Occasionally, Wolfram wondered if his parents were still intimate with one another. When one had Cecilie von Spitzweg as their mother, it was difficult to ignore her overt sexuality. Wolfram was never sure if he was disgusted by it or if he'd come to grudgingly accept it.

Whatever the answer was, he'd never been comfortable with the idea of her continuing to bestow her affections upon his father. Wolfgang wasn't merely another suitor; the man had had his chance and left.

"Surely your trip wasn't so horrible," Elizabeth said. She used Wolfram's mother's distraction as an opportunity to steal a hug for herself, lightly planting her lips against his cheek in the process.

"It was successful," Wolfram said. "That's all that matters."

"The wedding is still underway then?"

"For better or for worse. If all goes according the plan it should take place in Cimaron next spring."

"I'm sure it will be lovely," Elizabeth said. She looked as it nothing could ever be quite so wonderful of a wedding—but, Wolfram thought, she had her own reasons for maintaining that point of view.

A quiet whine interrupted them. Wolfram tore his attention from his childhood friend and set his eyes on Merry, who twisted in Katherine's arms and reached out for Wolfram with the little hand that wasn't shoved into his mouth.

"Merry," Wolfram said as he swept towards him.

He took Merry from Katherine and hugged him to his chest. Merry clung to him immediately, head dropping onto Wolfram's shoulder and free hand clutching his jacket.

"You should see the big ship Papa's making for you. It already looks so pretty at the docks. Geta and I were able to see it on our way home. Once it's completed, it'll be the grandest ship in the fleet!"

Wolfram brushed at Merry's blond curls, kissed his warm cheeks, and inhaled the smell of him—milk and baby powder and the gentle, scented oils added to his bath. Merry nestled comfortably against him. He looked up at Wolfram with the most beautiful blue eyes Wolfram had ever seen.

He was sure most parents thought such things about their children.

He was also sure Merry was easily the most beautiful baby of all.

"Mmmuuuummmm," Merry said around the thumb in his mouth. A bit of drool dripped down to coat his chin.

Wolfram fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the spittle away.

"You know you're not supposed to speak with your thumb in you mouth," Wolfram gently admonished him. "You also know that's not what you're supposed to call me. What's my name? Isn't it Wolfram? If you insist upon anything else, I'll settle for Father."

Merry pulled his thumb out of his mouth with a wet smack and crowed, "Wo-fu Mama!"

Try as he might to do otherwise, Wolfram could only smile resignedly.

"How was he?" he asked Katherine.

"He was an angel, Your Majesty," Katherine said. "He cried some for you in the beginning, but after a few days he was as sweet as a lamb."

"And how often did Yuuri see him?"

Katherine looked as if she wished she could give him a different answer.

"His Majesty... he came once or twice a week for half an hour on each occasion, but he restricted most of his visits to the evenings, once Merry had gone to sleep."

Wolfram frowned, sighed heavily, and looked down at his contented son. "Do you know where Papa is now?" Wolfram asked him. "What's Papa Yuuri doing?"

Merry blinked and gave no response except to stick his thumb back into his mouth.

"He's in his office?" Wolfram said as he turned back to Katherine.

"Yes, Your Majesty. With the Aristocrats, I believe. They've been in discussion all morning."

"And idea what about?"

"Nothing more than the usual, I expect. Lord Weller didn't seem too concerned."

"Then Yuuri won't mind me interrupting," he said.

He adjusted Merry in his arms to pass the baby back to Katherine. She took him easily, though Merry immediately began to fuss and whine over the transfer.

"Shh, I'll be back soon," Wolfram said. "I'm just going to find Yuuri. I'll see you again in a short while."

"Will you come to my room once you're done?" Elizabeth said. "There's something I want to show you."

"Of course," Wolfram agreed. He gave Merry a final kiss on the cheek. "Just give me a few moments."

With that, he turned to make his way into the castle.

* * *

><p>The hall where Yuuri's office was located had become one of the busiest in the castle.<p>

It was not much different from when Wolfram's mother had been Queen, except back then most of the mingling courtiers had been seeking an audience with the Regent and not the Queen herself. Yuuri, of course, allowed no such thing. Gwendal and Gunter could screen those permitted to enter, but Yuuri always made a point to speak personally with any inquiring parties.

Wolfram remembered how difficult it had once been to make his way down the hall to see his mother as a child. More often than not, he'd been petted and coddled and sent on his way back to the nursery, adored for his generally sweet disposition, but inevitably jilted due to his illegitimate birth. Stoffel had rarely let him into his mother's office; only Gwendal had ever been permitted to enter regularly.

As an adult, all those who had previously dealt with Wolfram with gentle hands, forced patience, and ill-disguised derision greeted him with a respect that may very well be feigned in some cases, but which was expected all the same.

The crowds parted for him as he turned onto the hallway. Many inched back to the walls and hastened to drop into the appropriate bows and curtsies. Some lowered their eyes as was appropriate, others did not. Wolfram responded with a gracious nod of his head to those that did, and was careful to make note of those who did not. A few greeted him in a relatively cordial manner, to which Wolfram showed a bland smile. He spent a good deal of time ignoring the sycophantic behavior. Observing Yuuri throughout the years had taught him to differentiate between sincerity and dishonesty.

A pair of guards stood by the door of Yuuri's office. They saluted as Wolfram approached. Though Wolfram caught them passing wary glances at one another, neither attempted to stop him from entering.

He would never hear what the conversation in the room was about. The minute Wolfram opened the door, the voices inside died completely.

Three years had done no good to Wolfram's relationship with the Aristocrats, as neither he nor they attempted to appease one another. Yuuri often encouraged a truce, but Wolfram did not care for a reconciliation. He felt nothing but contempt for them, had never quite earned their trust or support, and didn't expect that would ever change.

All eyes turned to Wolfram as soon as he entered; he shut the door on anyone who may try to peer in from the hallway. His uncle Auberon was barely able to conceal a sneer. The three lady Aristocrats speared him with unrestrained looks of disgust, and Julius von Mannheim did his very best not to look at him at all; he moved his eyes away and focused on one of the maps on the wall instead.

The rest had marginally more supportive reactions. Stoffel, Anissina's brother Densham, Suzannah Julia's aging father Odell, Gunter, and Gwendal respectfully stood to their feet in greeting. Stoffel rose a bit too hastily, with the result that his cape was caught beneath him and ended up twisting out of place. Gwendal move a bit too slowly, though Wolfram knew it was less because of the level of respect Gwendal had for him and more because he never did appreciate when a meeting was interrupted.

The Great Sage rose from his chair as well. He had settled in his usual spot beside Yuuri's desk. Conrart, standing sentinel in the corner, straightened and allowed a small smile to disrupt the seriousness of his expression

Wolfram noted all of these things in a hasty, impersonal glance around the room. Naturally, the majority of his attention went to the man behind the desk.

"Wolfram!"

Yuuri was already making his way around the desk and the long table that stretched in front of it. He was without his jacket—not at all uncommon. A few buttons of his shirt were left undone, allowing the material to hang loose and expose a small portion of his chest. Too much to be suitable for public, Wolfram thought. Yuuri's shirtsleeves had been rolled up, of course, revealing the entirety of his forearms.

Nearing his twenty-third birthday, Yuuri had more or less finished growing from a boy King into a man. His frame would likely fill out more as he continued his training, but he'd already surpassed all of their expectations. Yuuri stood just an inch taller than Conrart. He was fit and athletic and as full of energy as he'd ever been. His smile could still light up an entire room, and his eyes still held so much warmth and kindness. Even so, he'd managed to acquire a certain mature and serious demeanor he used whenever he was in the company of government officials. Wolfram suspected Yuuri had learned it after making a careful study of Gwendal.

Yuuri kept his hair short ever since going to war. Wolfram thought Yuuri might have had it trimmed again while he'd been away. There was another difference, too. Instead of staring into Yuuri's eyes, Wolfram's gaze darted to the curious patch of black hair left upon Yuuri's chin.

Wolfram smiled but held back an amused laugh. He needn't have made the effort; any sound he might have made was soon stifled by Yuuri's eager mouth crashing into his.

He heard the creaking of a chair as one of the Aristocrats shifted uncomfortably. There was a rustling of fabric as those who'd stood to their feet sat down again. Wolfram saw none of it. What could have been viewed over Yuuri's shoulder was easily blocked out when Wolfram's shut his eyes.

His face gained a slight flush. Public displays of affection were considered a breach of decorum. But then Yuuri's office was not quite public. Surely the Aristocrats didn't appreciate the display, but as Yuuri had been the one to initiate it Wolfram saw no reason for them to complain. Wolfram rather enjoyed how antsy they became. If half of them refused to accept his power and authority on their own, he had nothing against reminding them of his place.

Every kiss, every touch, every longing glance from Yuuri solidified Wolfram's place by his side as his Consort and heir better than any law ever could.

It was petty. Wolfram knew that. Truly it was not the manner in which he wanted to earn respect from people, but it worked and it wasn't entirely displeasing. At least he could be satisfied that he made Yuuri happy.

Yuuri grinned from ear to ear when they broke apart, hands on Wolfram's waist.

"How was it?" Yuuri said. He kept his voice low, like he hoped the others wouldn't hear.

"Fine. Varick and Arthur were both welcoming hosts, and there was no contention in the court. None that I was made aware of, at least," Wolfram reported.

Curiously he eyed the hair on Yuuri's chin, but decided to keep the questions to himself for the time being.

"Varick's reassigned a few of the dissenting voices elsewhere, or else he offered them a comfortable retirement with a generous pension they simply couldn't refuse. A few left of their own accord. Varick and Arthur have slowly been replacing them with men of their own choosing. As of now, everything's going according to plan."

"And their borders are still secure?" Yuuri asked.

"Isidore hasn't managed to find a way back in since Varick closed the borer to them," Wolfram reassured him. "There've been a few skirmished, but the battles have been contained at the border. Inner Cimaon is as safe as as peaceful as we could hope for. There hasn't been a single sign of the Black Knights."

"For now..."

"It's been three years, Yuuri. Lyron doesn't have the luxury of time the way the Demon Kingdom does. He'll be exploring new options now that his previous attempts have proven ineffective."

Yuuri nodded, unable or unwilling to disagree. "And Greta? How is she?"

"Still determined to go through with it," Wolfram said.

He raised a hand to Yuuri's face, cupped Yuuri's cheek before moving his fingers to play across Yuuri's chin. Wolfram lifted his brow in silent conversation while the subject of their verbal discussion continued in a more business-like fashion. For his part, Yuuri had the decency to look bashful.

"To their credit," Wolfram added, "Greta and Arthur get along wonderfully, and the people of Cimaron seem to have taken to her quickly. They're all quite excited for the wedding, nearly as much as they were when Varick and Lady Flynn were wed."

"Did you see Lady Flynn?"

"She arrived from Caloria a week after Greta and I arrived. She is not yet with child, but she and Varick remain hopeful."

"They'll manage it," Yuuri said confidently. "You didn't run into any problems?"

"No more than usual."

Yuuri's hands rose from Wolfram's waist to frame Wolfram's face. "How are you feeling?"

"Better now that I'm back on land," Wolfram said. He chanced a glance over Yuuri's shoulder to see the Aristocrats impatiently waiting. "How much longer will you be?"

"Not too much longer, I don't think."

"Too late for lunch?"

"Probably," Yuuri said. He rolled his eyes, but with his back to them the Aristocrats would neither see it nor take the hint. "But we can have dinner instead."

"I'd like that."

Yuuri smiled. It was as if wanted nothing more than to make Wolfram happy, which, Wolfram knew, was exactly the case. Yuuri pulled him in for another slow, tender kiss before they finally broke apart.

"I missed you," Yuuri said quietly.

"I missed you too," Wolfram said just as softly. "Don't keep me waiting too long."

"I won't, I promise."

Wolfram stole one last kiss. Then he allowed Yuuri to pull away and turn back to his desk. It was a struggle to leave when he wanted nothing more than to see his husband after their long separation, but he managed it admirably. Wolfram kept his back to the door as he opened it, his eyes focused on Yuuri as the distance between them lengthened. He turned to go only when he was once again standing in the hallway.

He departed satisfied that the Aristocrats were made wary and anxious by the show.

* * *

><p>Wolfram retrieved Merry from the nursery before making his way to Elizabeth's rooms.<p>

At precisely six years old, Merry was the size of a one-year-old human child. During Merry's time with them he had grown many of his baby teeth. He was eating solid and semi-solid foods. Merry could sit up by himself for as long as he desired, and he crawled around on his hands and knees to great effect. He was even beginning to add more words to his limited vocabulary, though "Mama" was still primary among them.

"Papa" and "Yuuri" had yet to be spoken. Wolfram suspected Merry liked to pretend he had no idea how to say them. He grew suspiciously disinterested whenever Wolfram tried to prompt him.

Merry was quiet as Wolfram carried him down the halls, content to suck on one of the curious devices Yuuri had procured from Earth in the hopes that Merry would be discouraged from using his thumb.

Upon arriving at Elizabeth's door, Wolfram adjusted Merry on his hip and used his free hand to knock. The sound of quiet rustling met his ears, soon followed by Elizabeth's shout of, "If that's you, Wolfram, you may enter. The door's unlocked. But make sure no one else sees!"

Confused, Wolfram grasped the door hand and pushed it open just enough to squeeze his way inside. He shut it behind him quickly.

Elizabeth stood across the room in front of a full-length mirror. Wolfram knew immediately what it was she'd wanted to show him. It was rather conspicuous, after all. Her customary red attire had been discarded; she wore a new gown instead. Its design was surprisingly modest. The bodice and full skirt met at her natural waist. The neckline was conservative and square-cut. An overlay of lace covered the bodice and shoulders; it ended with long, fitted sleeves.

More than the vision of modesty, Wolfram was surprised to note that the dress was comprised entirely of black fabric.

Elizabeth spun away from the mirror, the long skirt of her dress twisting about her legs. She lifted it carefully and straightened it out, smoothing her hand along it as if to be rid of a few wrinkles.

"Well?" she prompted. "What do you think?"

Wolfram could not immediately find the proper words. Black was truly a symbolic color to him. It was the royal color of the Great Demon Kingdom, of course. By law, few people were allowed to wear it—the reigning King or Queen, their Consort, their children, the previous King or Queen, and the Great Sage and his family.

For most of Wolfram's life, black had been his mother's color. She wore little else even now. Then there was Yuuri, who wore the color so magnificently Wolfram thought no one else could ever compare. The Great Sage barely did. Wolfram thought himself more suited to Bielefeld blue; black had the distinction and inherent impressiveness, but he was already so fair and pale the he feared his natural beauty was lost beneath it.

That was not so with Elizabeth.

"You look... beautiful," he said. It was the only thing he could think.

It was also the first time he'd ever said such a thing to her.

Elizabeth wore black like a Queen.

Quite suddenly, Wolfram was taken back to the days of their youth. So much time had been spent playing and running and chasing one another through the halls, dancing, pretending, arguing over toys, shouting over top of one another and turning away in fits of tears, only to nap off the frustration and return again to peaceful play once they awoke. All those hours in the gardens, in the courtyard—at Castle Spitzweg, at her family estate, at Blood Pledge. They took lessons together, learned to ride together, trained and sparred together until they collapsed in exhaustion and fell to sleep side-by-side.

Always, _always_, Elizabeth would insist that she would one day marry a Prince. They would live in a beautiful castle, throw all sorts of glamorous parties, and have a large brood of lovely children. Long ago, the Prince she'd had in mind had been Wolfram. There was a part of him that had known it despite his play at ignorance. Once, he'd even thought it only natural given how close they'd been.

But there was a louder part of him that was more adamant, that told him Elizabeth's fantasies could never be. He could love Elizabeth, but he could never desire her. He never had. He'd always suspected he knew why, though he hadn't been sure until Yuuri.

Even so, it hurt to know that Elizabeth would soon marry another man—not quite a Prince, but as close as she could possibly get.

"Do you think Ken will like it?" she asked.

"How could he not?" Wolfram said.

He adjusted his hold on Merry again, wrapping both arms around him securely.

Elizabeth eyed him and crossed her arms over her chest. "Stop that," she said.

"Stop what?" Wolfram asked.

"No one's leaving you," she said.

"What?"

"His Majesty and I can tell when you're thinking such things," Elizabeth revealed. "You get so clingy with Merry—"

"I most certainly do not cling!"

"—like he's the only one in the world who'll never leave you. I know how you think, Wolfram. We're too much alike for me not to. Your parents were frequently absent when we were younger, so you clung to Conrart. Then you discovered he was half-human. You felt betrayed. You were scared that he would die long before you. So you clung to Gwendal instead. But of course your relationship with him changed as you grew older. You thought it made you weak to keep clinging to your brother."

"I've no idea what you mean," Wolfram insisted. He couldn't look at her, so he stared off to the side instead.

"Yes, you do. You can't even look me in the eye. You know I'm right. You simply don't wish to admit it."

Wolfram's face grew pink in response.

Elizabeth continued as if she hadn't been interrupted, "Then His Majesty came. Naturally you clung to him. You still do. And Greta, too. But once again you've found yourself clinging to those of human blood. They'll die long before you. Now that Greta's grown she's going to marry a foreign Prince. You have to take a step back before you're ready to let her go. So what does that leave you with?"

Wolfram mumbled a response under his breath.

"What was that?" Elizabeth said. "I wasn't quite able to hear."

"I said it leaves me with Merry."

"Precisely," Elizabeth agreed. "I often suspect you need Merry more than Merry needs you."

"I hardly think it's so horrible to _need_ someone," Wolfram said. He glanced at her accusingly.

"Of course it isn't. Until you forget that there are other people who love you."

"I don't forget."

"Maybe not. But you don't believe it'll last. You think they'll all leave you, one way or another."

Wolfram shifted his gaze back to the side. If he happened to hold Merry a bit tighter, it was only because he was uncomfortable having his thoughts and feelings described so accurately.

"I'm not going anywhere, Wolfram," Elizabeth said. Her voice grew a touch more sympathetic, a little softer with reassurance and concern. She approached him and lightly placed a hand on one of his arms. "I'll be living here permanently. We'll see one another all the time."

"How splendid," Wolfram bit out sarcastically.

Elizabeth laughed. Wolfram suspected she would have given him a playful shove if he hadn't been holding the baby.

"It's not as if Ken is going to drag me off to the Great One's Temple and hide me away among the shrine maidens," Elizabeth said.

"You'd hardly fit in," Wolfram countered. "You're no maiden."

"You're hardly so virginal yourself," Elizabeth pointed out.

"That's not up for discussion."

"You brought it up. Everyone knows it, Wolfram. You're not always quiet about it."

The color in Wolfram's cheeks instantly became more pronounced.

"And you're all over one another enough as it is in public," Elizabeth added.

"We only kiss," Wolfram insisted.

"It's _how_ you kiss. And the way you look at one another. If the both of you didn't have such expressive faces maybe no one would notice, but His Majesty looks at you like a randy stable boy, and you look at His Majesty like you'd have dinner in his lap if it wouldn't be so inappropriate."

Wolfram's eyes widened. Suddenly the color drained from his face. He looked mortified.

"_Elizabeth_!" Wolfram hissed.

"I meant sitting in it, of course," she said. She didn't look as if that was the case. She leered at him in amusement. "Though I'm sure there's absolutely nothing wrong with His Majesty's privy parts. I've heard from some very reliable sources that he's actually quite—"

"_Elizabeth_!"Wolfram screeched so loudly Merry jolted in his arms and began to fuss around his pacifier.

"You're so prudish, Wolfram, even after all this time."

"You spend far too much time with my mother."

"And you spend far too much time pretending to be offended by sex when everyone knows you enjoy it."

Wolfram said nothing. He focused on soothing Merry, rubbing his back and kissing his face in apology.

Elizabeth knew him too well. He couldn't deny the truth in her comments. Wolfram had never been able to hide much from her. He couldn't hide much from anyone, not her, not Yuuri, and not his family—Gwendal whose gaze was so penetrating, his mother whose love was too comforting, and Conrart... Conrart who knew what no one else did.

It wasn't that Wolfram didn't enjoy sex. There were parts of it that were uncomfortable, of course, but he and Yuuri had experimented enough to know what they liked. Wolfram liked sex with Yuuri. He enjoyed seeing Yuuri naked, and he was no longer so shy about taking his clothes off in kind. He liked Yuuri's hands on him, around him, in him; he liked Yuuri's mouth, Yuuri's eyes, Yuuri's voice, the weight of Yuuri's body.

Yet there were times when Wolfram remembered a different man.

He could pass someone in the hallway and swear he could smell the musky scent of him, or hear someone laugh over dinner and think he heard the man's soft, dangerous chuckling. Wolfram could look into someone's eyes and remember the way another gaze had burned into him. He could be in the middle of a perfectly normal conversation and all it took was one word, a single insinuation, and all the shame and guilt came back to him in a landslide. It would never go away.

Wolfram wasn't able to look anyone in the eye when it happened. He could hardly even speak.

"Wolfram," Elizabeth said. Her laughing stopped; her hand returned to his arm. "I'll still be here. Nothing will change."

"I know," he said.

"Stop looking so sad."

"I will," he assured her. He shifted to stand a bit straighter. "Just give me time."

Three years was not nearly enough.

Elizabeth smiled gently. After a moment she released him and stepped back to the mirror. "Help me out of this dress and we'll have tea with Greta and your mother."

Wolfram nodded in agreement.

He never stopped clinging to Merry.

* * *

><p>Yuuri was able to leave his office by mid-afternoon.<p>

"How are you fairing?" Conrad asked him once the Aristocrats were gone.

Gwendal had already gone to see to his own set of paperwork, Gunter to see to Alexei's lessons. The others went to pursue activities of their own choosing, either work or leisure.

Yuuri stood behind his desk and stretched his arms above his head. His back arched and popped.

"Good," he said. "Cramped, but that's probably to be expected. The meeting didn't go so bad."

"The Aristocrats are more tolerable when they stick to business," Conrad agreed. His smile was small but amused.

"Was I okay?" Yuuri asked. He looked between his godfather and Murata; the former approached from his station in the corner of the room, while the latter stood from the chair at the side of Yuuri's desk, organizing a stack of paperwork.

"I mean, there wasn't anything... wrong... with me... right?"

Meetings with the Aristocrats, even when they strictly stuck to business, were always stressful. One-on-one Yuuri could handle them fine. Their attitudes never changed under any circumstance, but at least individually Yuuri didn't have to fight multiple voices shouting at him at once. Most conversations with the entire council assembled were always in danger of spiraling out of control. Countless times the original topic of discussion had been forgotten. Instead, he would listen as it shifted to the topics of his private life and Wolfram's many inadequacies.

Yuuri dealt with it the best he could. He'd learned how to best steer the conversations in order to avoid unwanted subjects, and the tension had lessened following the signing of the treaty with Cimaron. Now that they were no longer at war, the council seemed somewhat more peaceful whether or not they were any more tolerant.

But there were times when their stubbornness and their insistent slander of Wolfram set Yuuri on edge. Often he lost his temper just as quickly as the rest of them. The only difference was that the consequences of his were more severe.

"There was no cause for concern," Murata said. He placed his papers atop Yuuri's desk in a small pile. Then he clapped Yuuri's shoulder and smiled the cheeky, boyish smile he'd had since high school. "You're fine as long as you keep your temper in check."

"That's easier said than done," Yuuri told him.

"True enough," Murata agreed. He let his hand slip away soon after. "Now, if you'll excuse me. There's a lovely lady pining for my company somewhere in this castle. It would be cruel of me to keep her waiting any longer."

Yuuri snorted and rolled his eyes. Tiredly, he watched Murata head for the door and slip out of the office.

"You should follow His Eminence's example," Conrad said. "You've earned it. It was a good day."

Yuuri could do nothing but agree.

Conrad followed him from the office and accompanied him down the main hallways. He assisted Yuuri in avoiding a majority of the nobles vying for his attention, patiently reminding them that there were proper channel one was required to go through to put a petition to the King. As soon as they came to the private halls, Conrad's presence was not quite so imperative. His godfather left Yuuri at the door to the King's bedchamber.

Yuuri heaved a sigh upon entering his room. Though there would be just as much work to greet him come morning, he could feel the tension melt away as soon as he closed the door to the rest of the world.

The sound of laugher met his ears, high pitched baby squeals originating from the other side of the room. A large blanket was spread out on the floor. Colorful toys littered the ground in all directions. Neither Alexei nor the nanny's daughter were anywhere to be seen. Yuuri had expected as much. He recognized the laughter as Merry's.

Wolfram kneeled on the floor with the baby. He was half undressed, his boots and jacket discarded. Wolfram hovered over Merry on his hands and knees. He lifted the baby's shirt to blow raspberries onto his stomach. Merry shrieked loudly.

The room was a mess, Merry was loud and demanding attention, but that was okay because it meant Wolfram was home.

Yuuri came up behind Wolfram. He sank to the floor and wrapped his arms around Wolfram's waist, leaning over him, chest to back.

"I tripped on one of Merry's toys coming in here," he teased.

Wolfram stiffened mid-raspberry. His back went impossibly straight against Yuuri's chest; however, as soon as he heard the sound of Yuuri's voice, Wolfram relaxed and settled more comfortably against him.

"I apologize," Wolfram said. He glanced over his shoulder, green eyes sparkling as a smile danced across his lips. "I'll call one of the maids to clean up soon. I only wanted to spend time with him before his nap."

"It's fine," Yuuri said.

He pressed a kiss to the back of Wolfram's head and squeezed him tightly. Then Yuuri released him and settled down on the blanket.

"Naturally Merry's hogging all of the attention as soon as you get back," he joked.

"Is it my fault his other father couldn't spare the time to see him while I was gone?" Wolfram said. He eyed Yuuri critically.

Yuuri could hear the lecture already beginning to take form in Wolfram's voice. He winced and said, "See, I was sort of hoping Kat wouldn't make it sound that bad. It wasn't like I never saw him."

"You saw him when he was asleep."

"I was busy!"

"I'm sure," Wolfram said. He didn't sound convinced and showed Yuuri a disappointed frown.

Wolfram lightly ticked Merry's sides. The baby laughed again and twisted around in delight.

"I don't understand, Yuuri. You care about him. I know you do."

"Of course I do," Yuuri said. "I'm just... not good with him. Not like you."

"You've never taken the time to learn," Wolfram countered. "I did."

"It'll be better once he's older. Babies haven't ever really liked me."

It was a weak argument. He could tell by the expression on his face that Wolfram didn't believe him. Yuuri would be lying if he claimed to believe it himself.

He told himself he was hesitant only because Merry was so young because it was easier than admitting the truth.

Certainly Yuuri didn't know what to do with him. When Merry cried he couldn't tell if he was scared, or hungry, or hurt, or wet. When Merry was happy, Yuuri didn't know what to do to keep him that way. It wasn't easy like it'd been with Greta. When she'd been younger Yuuri would just grab a couple of gloves and throw a ball around with her outside. With Merry it was plushies and blocks and toys he barely knew what to do with, making noises and faces until one of them earned a positive reaction, and then repeating it ad nauseam.

When that excuse didn't work, Yuuri told himself it was because Merry liked Wolfram so much more. Yuuri didn't know how Wolfram did it. He suspected Wolfram was just as shocked by it as he was. Merry had latched onto Wolfram the moment Yuuri had handed the baby off to him, and neither Merry nor Wolfram had let go since. It was bizarre. Yuuri was traditionally the fun-loving one. He liked to laugh and run around outside and pretend he was still fifteen. Wolfram was prim and proper and obsessed with etiquette and tradition, temperamental and stubborn and angry. Yet Merry adored Wolfram, and Wolfram adored Merry in turn. Wolfram melted for Merry and became this sweet, gentle, loving creature that left Yuuri completely and utterly speechless.

Such things would have been easy to fix. In time, Yuuri would learn and gain more confidence. Perhaps he would acquire some of the paternal magic Wolfram seemed to have in spades.

The truth was that everything about Merry made Yuuri feel guilty. From Merry's eyes to his hair to the sweet baby voice that said "Mama" to a person that wasn't his mother, Yuuri looked at Merry and he saw his own failure. Wolfram would never understand that; he could look at Merry and see nothing more or less than his son. To Wolfram, Merry's parents were faceless people whose names he hardly bothered to remember. He scooped Merry up and held him, shushed him and kissed him as if Merry had always been meant for them.

One part of Yuuri thought that was true—the part that believed in fate, that told him everything happened for a reason; the part that'd seen a baby in his dreams.

The rest of him remembered the husband and wife he'd known before. He saw flashes of a proud father, injured and pale and wasting away from infection. He saw visions of a loving mother who asked only that her child be spared.

When Yuuri looked at Merry, he didn't see a happy baby. He didn't see his son. He saw Karl and Nastia Brandt, and he thought of how Merry would never know them.

"I know there's a lot on your mind," Wolfram said. He spoke to Yuuri with understanding in his voice, scooped Merry up and held him in his lap. "I know there's a lot for you to deal with. Being King has never been easy. My mother struggled with it. No one expects you to be perfect."

Yuuri snorted, if only because he was sure certain people did expect that of him.

"Alright, _I _don't expect you to be perfect," Wolfram amended. "But I think you should try spending more time with Merry. Not just for him. It would be good for you too. I don't want him to grow up knowing you as the King and not as his father."

Yuuri didn't want Merry growing up barely knowing anything about his real parents. He didn't say that, of course. He figured it was his job to make sure Merry knew. Wolfram was right in that respect. Yuuri needed to spend more time with Merry to ensure that Karl and Nastia weren't forgotten.

"Right," he agreed. He chanced a glance at Merry and felt the twist of guilt in his gut, but he didn't allow himself to look away.

"That's all I'm asking of you, Yuuri," Wolfram said. "I only want you to try."

Yuuri nodded to show that he was listening, but he didn't particularly want to discuss it more. To move the subject along, Yuuri stood to his feet and held out his arms for Merry, earning a look of confusion from Wolfram.

"Come on, give him to me for a sec," Yuuri said. "I want to show you something."

Wolfram looked at him warily but began to rise in order to make the exchange.

"Don't get up," Yuuri instructed. He leaned over to take the baby from him. "Sit there. You don't have to move."

Yuuri backed several feet away and chose another spot on the floor. Merry turned his big blue eyes on him and looked disgruntled, releasing an impatient whine and wiggling around in a bid for freedom. Yuuri tightened his hold on the baby for a moment and looked across to Wolfram.

"Just so you now I didn't miss everything he was doing while you were gone..."

Lifting Merry up, Yuuri propped the baby onto his feet.

"Alright, Mer," he said. Yuuri tried to use the sweet baby-talk voice Wolfram had become so shockingly good at, but he gave up when he thought he just sounded stupid. "You see Wolfram over there? Go get Wolfram."

Merry whined again, but when Yuuri slowly released his old on him, the baby took a tentative step forward. Then another... and another...

Wolfram gasped. His face split into a huge smile. "He's walking?"

"He did it for the first time a week or so after you left," Yuuri explained. He shuffled behind Merry on his knees in case Merry should need his help. "Kat came and showed me. I told her not to tell you so I could show you myself."

Wolfram spared him a quick look, his expression warm and tender. Then he turned his attention back to their son. "You're doing so well, Merry," Wolfram said. He held his arms out to beckon the baby closer. "You can do it. That's it. Come to me."

Merry toddled along clumsily, his steps slow and awkward. He looked as if he would topple over at any moment. Halfway to Wolfram he fell right onto his diapered backside. Merry paused a moment, looked startled, and then began to cry.

"Come on, tough guy," Yuuri said. He grabbed Merry under his arms and pulled him back onto his feet. "You know that didn't hurt. Keep going."

"It scared him, Yuuri," Wolfram said.

"He's fine. He's fallen before and gotten right back up. He's just putting on a show for you."

Wolfram didn't look convinced. To reassure him, Yuuri let Merry hold onto his hands as he guided the baby the rest of the way.

"See? Nothing to worry about."

Wolfram took the baby and began to rain kisses all over his face—which, Yuuri noted, was conspicuously free of tears.

"That was wonderful, Merry! I'm so proud of you!"

Merry instantly quieted and sat himself back into Wolfram's lap for a snuggle.

For a while, Yuuri and Wolfram sat together in joyful celebration. Wolfram coddled Merry and Merry soaked in the attention, while Yuuri sat beside them and clung to the moment of happiness like a shield against his guilt.

Soon after, the baby began to grow drowsy. Merry's tired eyes opened and closed slowly before finally sliding shut. Then he was asleep on the floor, sprawled over the blanket with messy blonde curls and rosy cheeks. Wolfram leaned over him, slipped a pacifier into Merry's mouth and brushed fine strands of hair off of Merry's forehead. Yuuri sat and watched. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything more perfect than Wolfram when he was quiet, peaceful, and so obviously in love.

"I missed you," Yuuri said—quietly, so as not to disturb the baby.

Wolfram glanced up and showed him a teasing smile. "You're the one who sent me away," he said.

"I thought you might like the chance to have some influence over Greta's wedding."

"I do. Thank you."

"Does it help a little?" Yuuri asked. "Planning and arranging it. Is it any easier to get used to?"

"A little, yes," Wolfram said. "Seeing her with Arthur helps the most, I think. He's very good to her, always has little gifts and tokens of his affection."

"Do you want more tokens of my affection?" Yuuri teased. He leaned over to nuzzle the side of Wolfram's face.

Wolfram's voice rang with quiet laughter. Gently, he shoved at Yuuri's shoulder. "I have enough as it is," Wolfram assured him.

Then Wolfram's eyes lowered, and Yuuri felt one of Wolfram's hands on his chin.

"Are you ever going to explain this?" Wolfram asked. His fingers stroked against the patch of hair there.

Yuuri flushed lightly and lifted one of his hands to rub the back of his neck. "I missed a spot?" he tried.

Wolfram laughed again, his eyes alight.

"You didn't miss. It's obvious you left it there."

"Maybe I wanted to try it out," Yuuri said. He shifted and looked off to the side, suddenly self-conscious.

"I can get rid of it if it looks stupid," he added. He didn't want to seem embarrassed or crestfallen but figured he was doing a poor job of disguising it.

Yuuri wondered if it was silly to want to impress his husband. Wolfram was usually so impeccably dressed, hair perfect, boots polished to a shine, clothes neatly pressed, hardly a wrinkle in sight. One the other hand, there was Yuuri, just an average looking guy who didn't spend much time worrying about his clothes or the state of his hair. He groomed himself enough to look presentable and wore what Wolfram told him to wear even if it was uncomfortable.

Many people praised his looks. They commented on his hair, his eyes, on the impressive rate at which he'd grown. But none of it sounded quite as nice as the times Wolfram would say, "You look handsome."

Yuuri didn't care much for what everyone else thought, but he wanted to be handsome for Wolfram.

Wolfram considered him carefully before moving in for a kiss. "Keep it," he said. "At least for a while. I need time to get used to it. Then I'll let you know what I think."

"Fair enough," Yuuri said.

He did his best to push aside any lingering self-consciousness. To distract himself, Yuuri grabbed Wolfram lips in another kiss, pulling Wolfram close as he breathed, "I want you."

He felt Wolfram's face warm.

"Merry's here," Wolfram said. All the same, when Yuuri pulled back enough to look at his face, Wolfram didn't look entirely opposed to the idea.

"He's sleeping," Yuuri gently countered. He surged forward to attach his lips to the side of Wolfram's neck. "He usually naps for at least an hour, doesn't he?"

"Sometimes longer," Wolfram agreed.

"We have plenty of time then."

"Unless we wake him up."

"You'll just have to keep quiet," Yuuri told him. He grinned against the soft skin of Wolfram's neck. He could feel the warmth of a deep flush spread down to Wolfram's chest.

"Don't think you can?" Yuuri teased.

"Shut up, you wimp," Wolfram said.

They stumbled to their feet together, making a wide path around Merry as they made their way to the bed.

Yuuri pulled Wolfram close, raising his hands to cradle Wolfram's head. Wolfram sighed lightly and placed kisses along Yuuri's jaw, pausing at Yuuri's chin to feel the scratch of short hairs against his lips.

"It was hard to focus on the rest of the meeting after you came in," Yuuri said. He guided Wolfram onto the bed, dragging the bed-curtains halfway shut. They could still see Merry well enough, but if Merry happened to wake up he wouldn't see much of them.

"You could have ended the meeting early," Wolfram said.

"I thought about it. But then the Aristocrats would never let me hear the end of it."

"Who cares about the Aristocrats?"

Wisely, Yuuri decided not to respond to the question. Instead he batted Wolfram's hands away and worked on undoing the buttons of Wolfram's shirt. He pushed Wolfram down onto the bed once he slid the fine white fabric from Wolfram's shoulders, once again attaching his lips to the side of Wolfram's neck.

Often Yuuri marveled at how little Wolfram had changed since the day they'd met. Wolfram's behavior had evened out with maturity, and he was more open with himself than he used to be, but there were few differences in his appearance. Wolfram being a full-blood demon, it was only natural; seven years to Yuuri were like two to Wolfram.

Wolfram had barely grown any taller. Shallow notches along the doorframe of his old nursery (now Merry's) showed that he'd only grown an inch in seven years. Wolfram retained the body of a teenager, all arms and legs that would have looked gangly if he were any thinner. His torso was still narrow-shoulders, his knees a bit knobby, his hips slim.

The only thing to have noticeably grown was Wolfram's hair. It hung around his face in golden waves and loose curls. When loose it hung to his shoulders, but it was often bound back tightly. Usually only Wolfram's bangs remained loose, brushed to the side instead of parting the way they used to.

Wolfram trained no less now that he was Prince Consort. Though no longer a soldier, Wolfram nonetheless insisted upon keeping up a routine. Yuuri could find no fault in it considering he still kept up his own. Yet Wolfram was not as muscled as one might expect. He'd gained a little weight and grown softer around the edges. Some of Wolfram's clothes fit him a little more snugly. His was was a little rounder, his cheeks a little fuller, his stomach a little less firm.

As Yuuri's hands went to unfasten Wolfram's pants, Yuuri's lips marked a path down Wolfram's neck, peppering Wolfram's skin with little red bites and slowly developing bruises. Wolfram moaned and clawed at Yuuri's shirt, shoving it down Yuuri's arms and running his hands down Yuuri's bare back.

The remainder of their clothing came off quickly—Wolfram's pants and undergarments were tossed to the foot of the bed, while Yuuri's piled on the floor. They kissed and touched with a sense of urgency, making up for more than a month of loneliness and unsatisfied desires. Their mingling breaths grew heavy, their hands alternately clutching and petting at one another. Wolfram tossed his head back, wrapped arms around Yuuri's back, his legs around Yuuri's waist.

Yuuri prepared Wolfram quickly and entered with hardly a word exchanged. They thrust together in unison, Yuuri's hips pitching forward as Wolfram's met him, fucking with abandon. Yuuri held Wolfram's arms to the mattress; Wolfram mouthed at Yuuri's shoulder and stifled his moans into the side of Yuuri's neck.

They collapsed onto the bed when it was done, slick with sweat and saliva and semen. Yuuri pulled Wolfram to him, held Wolfram in his arms, and pressed short, sweet kisses to his face.

Wolfram's hand came up to touch Yuuri's chin, stroking the hair there with fondness.

"You should keep it a while," he said. His eyes were still dark, his cheeks stained a lovely pink.

"You think so?" Yuuri said.

"Yeah..."

Yuuri pressed a kiss to Wolfram's forehead, smiling in success.

"Wait here a minute," he said.

Yuuri rose from the bed, circled around and found Merry still asleep on the blanket on the floor. As gently as he could, Yuuri lifted the baby into his arms. Merry stirred and whined, but Yuuri shushed him quietly, and when he placed the baby between them on the bed, Merry settled back to sleep.

From the adoring look in Wolfram's eyes and the upward curve of Wolfram's lips, Yuuri could tell that he was pleased.

"I love you, you wimp," Wolfram said. He slipped his arms around Merry, holding the baby safe and comfortable between them.

Yuuri cupped Wolfram's face and leaned over Merry to press a kiss to Wolfram's lips.

"I love you, too," he said.

_**To be continued...**_


	2. Chapter Two: And So It Begins

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Kyou Kara Maou or any of its characters. All of the original characters were, however, created by me.

**Beta-ed by:** G, whose support through all these years will forever be appreciated.

**Warnings:** Language, violence, general dark/adult themse, angst, sexual content, sexual content of dubious consent, blood, torture, and OC!character death.

**Pairings:** Yuuri/Wolfram. Other side pairings will be mentioned, including Murata/Elizabeth and Lyron/Wolfram.

**Setting:** Seven years post Season 2. Three years after the events of _Love and War_. Yuuri is now 23, Wolfram is 89 (17), and Greta is 18. As with _Love and War_, please ignore all OVAs as well as the entirety of Season 3.

**Rating: **M

**A/N: **I've rewritten this chapter as well. It remains predominantly the same, I simply updated it to something closer to my writing style. Some unnecessary paragraphs have been omitted. Others have been simplified. One scene was rewritten completely and condensed. Certain pieces of dialogue may be somewhat different, but the results of each conversation are the same..

* * *

><p><em><strong>Between Kings<strong>_

by Mikage

**Chapter Two – _And So It Begins_**

It was said that time could heal all wounds. Time made hardships easier to bear. With time, people often gained the capacity to forgive.

But not forget. It was never quite as easy to forget.

Yet they could put the past behind them. The trials of one's youth would offer a source of strength in one's tomorrows. The disagreements that once dominated one's life would grow meaningless with age—when death became a constant specter lurking in the shadows, waiting for the precise moment to strike.

And so snuff out another meaningless life.

Then there was no use for time. It healed nothing. It was simply deliverance—a path to an end.

To others, time was cruel. It taunted the young with a glimpse of an aging future, and teased the old with memories of a youthful past. Of all of life's trials, time alone allowed for no escape. It trapped and confined. Time made it impossible to run away. A brash, lusty youth would retire to bed for the evening and wake in the morning to find their face lined and their hair streaked with gray.

Time would always catch up, and in the end time would always win.

For the Demon Tribe, time was slow and gentle. To the Humans, time rushed too quickly and carried them to death too soon.

To Lyron, time was his most frustrating enemy.

"I do not like to be kept waiting, Louis."

Lyron Aurelius, reigning King of Isidore, sat at a table covered with plates and trays of food—all manner of freshly cooked dishes and delicacies, seasoned meats, broiled fish, sear vegetables, candied fruits, and puffs of sweet pastries. Lyron noticed none of it. He pushed his plate to the site, empty now of the food that had been served to him. He'd hardly tasted it. He had greater concerns, after all. He could not allow himself to enjoy a single meal until time was once again working on his side.

Three years had come and gone, and still Lyron did not have what he wanted. The portrait that hung in his bedchamber was a daily reminder. For a single moment, for a period of time so brief it felt like nothing, Lyron had had Prince Wolfram. He'd had Wolfram's youth and his beauty at the tips of his fingers, but it had been snatched away. No matter the number of orders he issued, no matter the number or skill of the men he put to the task, three years had passed him by without any success of taking Wolfram back.

"Your Majesty knows that your ministers and I have been working tirelessly to see that your commands are followed," Louis said.

As always, something in the quality of his voice was lacking. It was like talking to the dead—he didn't feel; he could only speak.

"Your Majesty also knows that these things take time."

Lyron sneered. He turned a glare on Louis that would have frightened any other man. Louis, however, was no ordinary man. Had he been, Lyron doubted he would have kept Louis for so long. Someone else would have been sitting in the chair across from him—attempting to console him with empty words, and failing.

Louis looked far too unconcerned for Lyron's liking.

Three years had not tarnished Louis's comeliness. Louis possessed a simple sort of beauty that Lyron had always found attractive. There wasn't anything particularly memorable about the way Louis looked, except perhaps the emotionless look in his eyes. There was nothing there. No fondness, no anger, no soul. It confused Lyron that someone so lovely could look so plain. The only thing that was truly inspiring about Louis was the richness of his clothing.

Louis's stature was unimpressive—neither tall nor short, but decidedly average. His coloring did little to draw attention to himself, pale skin with ashen hair and dull green eyes. His body was compact and leanly muscled instead of broad and bulky. Louis's slim physique allowed him agility and speed in battle, a build more suited to his fighting style. He was a quick, stealthy warrior in the place of the usual blundering knight. Most of Louis's opponents made the mistake of underestimating his skill. Then he drew his blade on them and slit their throats, and they never saw it coming.

He was dull compared to the likes of Wolfram von Bielefeld, but there was a certain charm in that. True beauty could be a blessing. It could also be a curse, and on the battlefield it served no purpose. Thus, Louis had no need for it. He was of more use to Lyron in other respects.

"Do I sense a lecture from you, Louis?" Lyron said. His face remained set in a severe frown, his voice full of a warning he knew he had little need to give.

"Your Majesty has posed such questions before."

"My counselors give me reason to repeat myself."

"I would never presume to instruct you, Your Majesty," Louis said. "You are far more learned than I. Your words carry far more weight than my own. I simply meant to explain the situation."

"I assure you, I am well aware of the situation."

"There are reasons that we have not been as successful despite how earnest we are in our efforts."

Lyron sat back in his chair with a careless wave of his hand. "Because Cimaron opposes us now?" he said. "We should have used their instability to our advantage when that old fool Belar died and his spineless son inherited the throne."

"I am sure the conquest would have been successful had King Varick not immediately sought to ally himself with the Demon Kingdom."

"The alliance alone should not prevent us from breaching their borders," Lyron insisted. "Yuuri had sent no men to aid Varick's arm. He sends them money and weapons but no men to use them. He would rather sit safely in his castle than face me on the field!"

"The field is too dangerous a place for you, Your Majesty, when you remain without an heir."

Lyron slammed his fist against the table, causing cups, plates, and utensils to rattle and clatter.

"_Don't _start that with me, Louis," he said. "You know how I despise hearing it from the likes of you. Robert reminds me often enough."

"I apologize," Louis said. He did not look at all apologetic. Louis stared at Lyron with his cold, dead eyes, his face completely expressionless. "It is also not entirely true that King Yuuri has sent no men. One of his general aids Cimaron's army. A man known as Adalbert von Grantz."

Lyron relaxed at the change of subject, yet his fist remain clenched atop the table. "Adalbert von Grantz is one man who chooses to consort with hoodlums and bandits," he said.

"Be that as it may, Lord von Grantz is experienced in combat and has gained a prominent reputation in Cimaron. He even served King Belar for a brief period of time. As such, even the men who find fault with Varick trust von Grantz to protect their borders."

Lyron sneered. "Cimaron is home to such fickle men."

"The alliance has also opened Cimaron to the countries King Yuuri previously made peace with."

"Caloria poses us no threat," Lyron said. He bristled at the mere insinuation. "Caloria is too small a country to exist without the support of those more powerful, and it rests in the hands of an ineffective woman."

"Caloria is the least of out worries," Louis agreed, "and little cause for concern, but what of Francia and Calvalcade?"

"Antoine of Francia is even more spineless than Varick, and the King of Cavalcade is old and feeble and nearly on his deathbed, to be replaced by a seventeen-year-old girl. I hardly think we have much reason to concern ourselves with them."

"You underestimate the strength of their forces if they should join against us."

"They _haven't_ joined against us!" Lyron said. Hastily he stood from his chair to slam both hands against the table, leaning in to shout into Louis's face.

The fact that Louis remained impassive through it all only inflamed Lyron's anger further.

"We are wasting our time preparing ourselves for a circumstance that has not yet come to pass! We should be storming Cimaron and crushing them like the spineless dogs they are before making our way to the Demon Kingdom!"

"We must be sure we know what to expect, Your Majesty," Louis said, level-eyed and unruffled.

"This waiting game is a pointless waste of our resources! I want Cimaron out of my way! Not next month, not two years from now, but _today_! If I have to squash Francia and Cavalcade along the way, then so be it! You have done _nothing_ to put us any closer to accomplishing what I have waited _years _for, and you've allowed King Yuuri to think that he's won, that he intimidates us with his little alliances! That _fool_ thinks he has outsmarted _me_, and I have you and Robert to thank for it!"

Louis had no visual reaction to the tirade. Lyron tore himself away from the table with an impatient growl. He turned his back on Louis and glared out the window. There, a starry night loomed over a frosty garden.

It galled him to think of Yuuri victorious, to imagine him celebrating his achievements when it was Lyron himself who should be reveling in success. Yuuri was nothing more than another weak man in a world full of simpletons. He did not make use of his powers as he should. Instead, that fool relied on promises and treaties instead of strength and intimidation. That ignorant boy-King didn't even realize he was destabilizing his own government in the process. A kingdom the size of the Demon Kingdom needed a King of strength and confidence in order to flourish, someone who was unafraid of using force to make an example of someone.

Yet Yuuri thought he'd won. He thought he'd proven his peaceful methods to be the more successful ideal. Yuuri looked to his alliance with Cimaron as if it legitimized him, as if it made him some great, worldly benefactor to be worshipped and idolized by the masses. He had denied Lyron's offer of a treaty without considering the benefits or the ramifications of either decision. Instead, Yuuri turned around and made a treaty with Cimaron, formerly his greatest enemy—thereby spitting in the face of Isidore and showing the world exactly who he thought to be the more worthy friend. And he was marrying his _daughter_ to Cimaron's current _heir_ to solidify the friendship.

In the year following the signing of the treaty, Lyron had viewed it as an amusing sideshow. It entertained him to think of these boy-Kings forming some sort of peace-loving league of justice against him.

Now, when Isidore had nothing to show for their efforts to break through Cimaron's defenses, Lyron felt nothing but cold fury.

It was an _outrage_. Lyron had never been so insulted in all his years as King.

Furthermore, the more obstacles that lied in the path between himself and the Demon Kingdom, the further away he was from acquiring it as his own—and Prince Wolfram along with it.

Louis rose from his chair with a rustling of fabric. Lyron sensed Louis moving behind him. He turned to see Louis kneeling upon the floor.

"Your Majesty knows that I only wish to serve you in a manner that benefits both you and your kingdom," Louis said. He bowed his head and lowered his eyes to the floor in submission.

As Lyron was unable to see his face, Louis looked like the picture of a chastened, repentant man.

"You know what I want, Louis," Lyron said. "I need not repeat myself again."

"You will have it, Your Majesty. The Demon Kingom and Prince Wolfram will be yours if you only allow us more time."

"Would you have me ride toward victory as an old man?"

Bravely—or foolishly, given that no other man would dare to in such a situation—Louis lifted his head and raised his eyes to Lyron.

"You have been disappointed by the delays. I swear on my life that you will not be disappointed by the outcome."

Lyron did not smile. His expression did not change at all, except for a brief twitch at the corner of his mouth. He was not pleased and far from reassured. He had half a mind to strike out at Louis for his impudence. Lyron did not appreciate the implication that Louis could in any way control the emotions and the reactions of a King. Yet—and there was always that "yet," that minute impulse that staid him—if there was anyone who could see that his desires were realized, Lyron knew it would be Louis.

"You may rise," Lyron said.

Louis rose to his feet slowly. He continued to face Lyron and kept his gaze level.

Lyron placed his hands on him then, reaching behind to untie Louis's long ashen hair from its bindings at the nape of his neck. He ran his fingers through the fine strands, cupped the back of Louis's head and pressed the tips of his fingers into Louis's scalp.

Lyron kissed him then—not kindly or tenderly, but harshly. He released all of his frustrations onto Louis's lips. Lyron pressed, and licked, and bit, until he felt the merest of pressure in response. Then he knew Louis understood.

It lasted but a few moments. All too soon Lyron released Louis's mouth.

He did not pull his hands away.

Louis's lips were red from the brutal kisses. They lifted into the scantest trace of a smirk.

"Your Majesty," he said, "perhaps it is time for us to seek an alliance of our own."

Lyron's brow lifted even as his frown remained. "And who would you propose?"

He thought he saw a rare spark light Louis's eyes. For just a few moments, Louis's gaze was not quite so empty of feeling.

He looked ruthless.

"Someone with a navy," he said.

* * *

><p>"Do you still intend to go through with this foolish plan?"<p>

Julius walked side-by-side with his daughter in the lush gardens of Blood Pledge Castle. Elise looked at him with concern in her eyes.

He was not ignorant of the things that worried her, though he could not feel concerned for himself. To remove Prince Wolfram from power would be a large and potentially dangerous undertaking, to be sure, but it was imperative that he do so. Julius was confident that everything would fall into place in time. The atmosphere at Blood Pledge had changed. There were fewer suspicions, fewer rumors traveling through the halls. No one would suspect until it was done, and by that time it would be too late.

On the path ahead of them, Lord von Voltaire's adopted son and Katherine Algren's small daughter explored the contents of a garden pond. Elise watched over them, but as they were alone in the gardens and the children were behaving themselves, her supervision was not quite so rigorous as it would have been otherwise.

"You know my answer, Elise," Julius said.

"Are you not satisfied?" Elise said. She adopted a frown to match his own. "You've had an illustrious career. You have His Majesty's trust. You have your health. And yet you would sacrifice that to avenge Ehren when it has been thirty years since he was put to death? The past is in the past, Father. Ehren will not rest peacefully until you let it go."

"_I _will never rest until the offenses done to our family have been repaid in kind."

Julius paused a moment to gaze upon his daughter.

"Are _you _satisfied, Elise? Do you enjoy your place at court so much that you have grown complacent?"

"I am pleased with my post as governess, yes," Elise said. "Brigitta is headstrong but generally well-behaved, and Alexei is similarly pleasant. Prince Merriel is spoiled and overindulged, but as he is Lady Algren's charge and not mine, I rarely deal with his tantrums."

She looked at the children again—not with fondness, but with a sense of duty. Julius's expression caved to disappointment. It did not please him to have his own daughter, his only remaining child, accept things as they were when she knew how desperately he had been waiting for his chance.

"How do you find Prince Wolfram?" he said.

"Father, you need not ask such a question, for you already know my answer. He is a nuisance. He contradicts me in front of my own charge. He is vain, arrogant, and self-important. He makes no effort to even appear open to compromise. He is controlled by his jealousy and his ambition for power. He has grown lazy. He eats too much, he spends too much, and he's not firm enough with the children. Most days I would like nothing more than to see him thrown from the highest tower."

Ever the cautious planner, Julius swept his gaze around the garden to make certain they were alone. There was no sign of another presence, and the children were well out of earshot.

So he smiled at the imagery.

"Yet in spite of all that," Elise said, "I would not see him removed from power if you intend to sacrifice yourself and your family to do it."

"We will sacrifice nothing."

"How can you be so sure, Father? You know your plans are not foolproof. All manner of things could go wrong. You rely on others to maintain your secrecy. You've revealed your intensions to the Aristocrats."

"Only those we know we can trust," Julius said.

"You trust Lord von Bielefeld? He'll not support you, Father, no matter the promises or reassurances you make."

"Auberon despises his nephew as much as anyone."

"But is hatred enough to sway his loyalties?"

"Hatred is more than enough," Julius said.

He knew the power of hatred. It had given him strength for many years now. Hatred was his constant companion and his dearest friend, ever since his son had been butchered by the very man who had encouraged marriage between their children as a means of settling their familial differences. Wolfgang had not been punished. Instead, he had been saved by the affections of a fickle woman who had no business being Queen. Ehren had not received the justice he deserved.

Now Wolfgang's son sat upon the throne, heir to the King. Wolfram threatened to strip Julius and his comrades of their power and titles. Had Julius known, he would not have agreed or supported Wolfram's marriage to the King.

He would not make that same mistake again. Prince Wolfram was no longer necessary. He'd signed the Declaration of War when needed, but now that war was over. King Yuuri had seen to that when forming an alliance with Cimaron. Wolfram was little more than a pawn in a much larger game. To win it, certain sacrifices needed to be made, and the pawn would be the first to go.

"Soon," Julius said, "you will see that you have nothing to fear."

Removing Prince Wolfram had never been more imperative. True, the Bielefeld boy was adept in sating His Majesty's sexual appetite, but otherwise the boy was simply holding the King back. So long as His Majesty remained infatuated, he would never know greatness. Prince Wolfram challenged the King too often, and abused the opportunity His Majesty allowed his subjects to correct him when they thought him in the wrong. Wolfram did not make the King appear open and amendable; rather, His Majesty was made to seem weak and easily controlled.

Julius knew that was not so. His Majesty was merciful but not week. He was not incapable of posing a strong front against their enemies, he was simply being guided in the wrong direction by ineffective ministers. The King's apparent weakness was not due to any lack of power, but due to his counsellors' insisting upon holding him back.

His Majesty's unique magical abilities should not be quelled and contained, Julius thought. They should be unleashed upon their enemies whenever necessary.

"How do you find the King, Elise?" Julius said.

His daughter released a haughty sniff at the question. "He is a fool," she said. "Only a brainless simpleton would carry on as he does."

Julius experienced another small twinge of disappointment before he responded with, "Many ladies of the court would say that he is quite handsome."

"Because his looks are exotic and because he is the King. What lady does not find the very idea of a King attractive?"

"My daughter, so it would seem."

Elise frowned at him. "I find the idea of a strong king attractive, Father. His Majesty is far from being a strong kind."

"My dear, who _is _a strong king?"

Elise looked as if she would say something. She thought better of it at the last minute.

"What is this about, Father?" she said instead. She eyed him suspiciously. "If you intend to offer me a part in your plan, you can forget it. You know what I think of it."

"I am merely considering which maneuvers to make once the plan is successful," Julius said.

"I want nothing to do with the King. I may not seek revenge for Ehren as you do, but that does not mean I have no shred of dignity or honor."

"You've not heard what I mean to propose."

"I can imagine," Elise said. She turned from him to look back toward the children.

Julius considered her. He did not know how to convince her to take part. Perhaps it would be best to let it wait for a later time. No doubt she'd come to her senses as soon as she realized how his efforts would pay off. He'd leave her to stew on it for a while. If all went well, he'd have no need to convince her; she'd come to the idea herself.

"Certain potions will be delivered to your room," he told her. When she looked as if she would argue, he raised a hand to stay her. "You'll know what they're intended for. Keep them. If you find them useful, they will be there. If not, you need only hide them where no one else will find them."

"Perhaps I'll rid myself of them," Elise said. "I wouldn't want any incriminating evidence lying around."

Julius smiled. "You have so little faith, Elise."

She eyed him again, but Julius became engrossed in planning.

One day, everything would be as it should be. Prince Wolfram would be gone, Julius would have his revenge on Wolfgang von Bielefeld, and their King would be free to explore the limits of his power.

Soon he would succeed, and everything would be different.

* * *

><p>"Your Majesty..."<p>

Yuuri was not one for parties—his birthday party chief among them; he hated the attention and despised the flattery.

Once he'd finished personally speaking with every last guest, Yuuri left Gwendal to handle them while he found a vacant, somewhat shadowed spot for himself. He stood beside one of the garden statues, nursing a goblet of wine he'd picked up from a serving tray on the way over. He scanned that crowd tiredly; he found Murata dancing with Elizabeth while Conrad spoke with a courtier Yuuri had left him with some twenty minutes ago. Gunter seemed similarly occupied. Greta was keeping herself entertained with Brigitta and Alexei by teaching them to do. Lady Celi chattered with Wolfgang animatedly, Anissina was in the midst of a spirited debate with her brother, and Wolfram was sitting at the head table, laughing at something Katherine had said while he bounced Merry in his lap.

So distracted was Yuuri that the sudden sound of a voice to his right startled him. Yuuri flinched before he could stay the reaction and cursed aloud, choking on his wine mid-swallow. He groaned to himself internally; nonetheless, once he'd recovered, Yuuri turned to face the newly arrived courtier. He nearly froze when he saw that it was Wolfram's irascible uncle.

Auberon von Bielefeld looked as if this were the last place he wanted to be, a feeling Yuuri could understand completely.

"Lord von Bielefeld," Yuuri said.

He cleared his throat, somewhat uncomfortable to be speaking with Auberon alone. Yuuri took another swallow of his wine in a vain attempt to calm his nerves. He hoped someone would be over to save him soon.

"I didn't see you earlier," Yuuri continued. "How are you?"

"I have been hoping to speak with Your Majesty in private," Auberon replied. He did not seem as if he intended to answer Yuuri's question at all. He didn't even bow.

Yuuri took it in stride.

Wolfram would have been pissed.

Against his better judgement, Yuuri asked, "What about?"

Auberon wasn't looking at him. He stood beside Yuuri, straight backed and empty handed. He appeared tense, as if unsure whether or not he truly wanted to be standing there speaking with the King. Auberon's face was twisted in displeasure and discomfort, and his gaze was focused at some random point in the crowd.

"I wish to speak with Your Majesty about my nephew," Auberon said.

Yuuri winced. He wasn't any more fond of the topic than Auberon was.

"There hasn't been a lot of agreement between us on that subject," Yuuri said.

"No, there has not," Auberon agreed. "Yet I feel compelled to broach the subject considering the rumors that have been traveling around court as of late."

"What rumors?"

"People claim that Your Majesty is too lenient with him."

Yuuri snorted into his goblet of wine, draining the rest of it before he answered. "You've said that yourself," he pointed out. "But Wolfram's my husband, not my kid. It's not my responsibility to punish him whenever you think he's done something wrong."

"You are the King," Auberon said.

"I am," Yuuri agreed.

"It is your responsibility to punish those whose actions and behaviors have an adverse effect on the Kingdom."

"As far as I'm concerned, Wolfram hasn't done anything wrong."

"There are many who disagree with you," Auberon countered. "Some blame him for the recent tax increase. They say he takes after his mother, that he spends too much on clothing and parties."

"And I told you that isn't true," Yuuri said. "I raised taxes because we're expanding the navy. I'm having new ships built. Your brother's been promoted and is getting a new ship of his own."

"The Merry Rose," Auberon said. "Yes, I told them that. I do not believe they were satisfied by the answer."

Yuuri glanced at him again, curious and confused by Auberon's sudden desire to confront him. The tone of Auberon's voce was not as gruff and impatient as usual, but cautious, like he was speaking of things he shouldn't be. Auberon continued to stare into the crowd, his eyes locked on someone or something Yuuri was unable to pinpoint. It was almost as if Auberon was trying to appear disinterested by their conversation despite having started it.

"Is something wrong, Lord von Bielefeld?" Yuuri said.

"No," Auberon replied quickly. "No, nothing. Only rumors."

Yuuri wondered, if it was only petty rumors, why would Auberon bother bringing it up in the first place?

"But I would caution Your Majesty to be wary," Auberon said. His voice lowered. "The court is not as happy a place as it appears."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Yuuri!"

It was Wolfram's voice. Yuuri gave another start, watching his husband approach with Merry in his arms. Wolfram face was flushed with wine but his eyes remained focused for the time being. His expression was confused as he glanced between Yuuri and his uncle with a questioning look in his eyes.

"What are you doing?" Wolfram asked as he drew closer.

"Nothing," Yuuri said. "Lord von Bielefeld and I were just—"

But when he turned to motion toward Wolfram's uncle, Auberon had already gone.

* * *

><p>Wolfram's knees ached against the floor.<p>

His mind was fuzzy and lethargic from wine. It warmed his stomach, made him feel light and heavy all at once, and kept his memories from surfacing. He was incapable of thought and reacted on instinct. It was better that way. He didn't have to think about what he was doing.

"Wolfram..."

Yuuri writhed and moaned before him, fingers tangled in Wolfram's hair.

Wolfram gripped at Yuuri's thigh with one hand, nails lightly digging into the muscle. His other hand fisted the portion of Yuuri's cock he wasn't able to fit into his mouth.

Alcohol helped everything else fade into the background. It gave Wolfram courage, allowed him to feel and say and do things he wouldn't have been able to without it. Horror, shame, guilt, and embarrassment were muted for a time. He felt free, could let himself be happy, could look at Yuuri and not think about betrayal, but focus instead on how handsome Yuuri looked in the candlelight.

"Wolfram..."

This was a part of sex they rarely performed when Wolfram was sober. Yuuri could handle himself just fine without the aid of a drink, but Wolfram needed it whether he was giving or receiving. Otherwise he wouldn't be able to bear it—not the feel of it, not the taste of it, not the smell. It felt dirty. Wolfram hated how awkward it felt bent over Yuuri's lap, straining his jaw to take as much of it in as he could. That Yuuri enjoyed it was no reassurance; instead, Wolfram felt pressured to tolerate it.

Of all the features that made up the male physique, Wolfram thought the penis was surely the ugliest. It was obscene. Once he hadn't concerned himself with it much. It was there; he had one, Yuuri had one, it was what made them both male.

But certain events had a way of tarnishing something that shouldn't have seemed as awful as it did.

There were plenty of other areas of Yuuri's body that Wolfram liked better. He liked Yuuri's chest—even the tiny, sparse black hairs between Yuuri's pectorals. He liked Yuuri's back and arms, his shoulders, his calves. Wolfram liked the parts of him that were tame, the parts that he could touch or stare at without feeling dirty or uncomfortable.

The rest of it Wolfram tended to leave well enough alone. The hips, the groin, the buttocks, anything that would invariably draw his eyes to that ugly part of all men that repulsed him.

Wolfram wondered if it was an irrational fear. After all, Lyron was hundreds of miles away, and Yuuri was unaware of what Wolfram had done to bring peace to their country. As things were now, Yuuri would never know. Wolfram could put it behind him, could move on if he wanted to, and pretend as if the memories were nothing more than a bad dream.

"_Fuck_, Wolfram..."

Vulgar. Inappropriate. Disgusting.

Wolfram didn't want to forget. If he did, he'd only be condoning his actions.

Yuuri's hands grabbed at Wolfram's arms and pulled him upward. Wolfram rose and stumbled into Yuuri's lap. He sighed in relief, opened his mouth against Yuuri's kiss, and wrapped his arms around Yuuri's neck to keep himself upright as his head spun through the haze of wine.

He moaned low in his throat when Yuuri's fingers went between his buttocks. Wolfram panted against Yuuri's cheek, closed his eyes and shifted back on Yuuri's fingers to urge him on.

Yuuri's free hand was everywhere. It smoothed down Wolfram's side, slipped over Wolfram's chest and stomach, cupped Wolfram between the legs and stroked purposefully. Then Yuuri reached back to take a handful of one buttock, parting them as the slick fingers of his other hand continued to prod inside.

"_Yes_..." Wolfram said. He arched against Yuuri, his grip tight. "_Please_..."

When Yuuri slipped his fingers out and replaced them with his cock, Wolfram threw his head back, grinding down eagerly.

This was better. This was always better. It was familiar to Wolfram. It held no shame for him.

He often wondered if it should have, if the fact that he enjoyed it exactly like this meant something about him, but as long as it was Yuuri he found he didn't care either way.

Wolfram could feel everything. He felt Yuuri's heart beating wildly in his chest; he felt Yuuri's breath fanning over his face and puffing against his neck and shoulder when Yuuri leaned down to mark the skin there. Wolfram felt the way Yuuri's body trembled, the way he throbbed with desire, how he tried _so hard_ to control himself for Wolfram's sake, only to let himself go when Wolfram encouraged it. He felt the moans that rumbled deep in Yuuri's chest; he felt Yuuri's power in the sweat that coated Yuuri's skin, in the way Yuuri's hips snapped.

That power passed between them, from deep within Yuuri to deep within Wolfram, like something alive—a spark of fire, so hot it burned blue.

It drove Wolfram to the brink of delirium. He knew he was moaning loudly but could barely hear himself, knew he spoke familiar words but didn't have the ability to comprehend them.

"_Please, _Yuuri... _Yes, please..._"

Yuuri's dark eyes were on him, staring into his face, watching all the tiny changes in Wolfram's expression as the pleasure built. Like this, Wolfram thought Yuuri was his most handsome—out of control, but not dangerously so. He was blown away by Yuuri's strength, by the sense of abandon Yuuri aroused within him.

Wolfram needed, and wanted, and loved, and when he came he threw his head back again and simply _felt_. It was like his soul reached out to Yuuri, and Yuuri's answered in kind, wrapping around him and seeping through him in an explosion of sensations that left him weak but made Wolfram feel so much joy.

He collapsed into Yuuri's arms, leaned against his chest, his breathing hard. Yuuri mouthed at Wolfram's neck, his hands sliding up Wolfram's back to take Wolfram's face between his palms. One of his thumbs traced over Wolfram's bottom lip, and when Wolfram looked into Yuuri eyes he saw how deep they had grown, how the pupils shifted. Yuuri's gaze was sharp; around them, the air sizzled a faint blue.

When Yuuri spoke, Wolfram couldn't be sure which voice he used.

"Mine..." he said.

Wolfram smiled tiredly and nodded. "Yours..."

* * *

><p>She tried to make out the man's face but was unable to in the dark. She'd been instructed to meet him in a room in the abandoned guest wing shortly after nightfall. The room had no source of light but for the scantest of moonbeams filtering through a thin gap in a dusty, ragged set of curtains, casting faint, silver light over the floor. The rest of the room was left in shadow so dark and dense the chamber seemed endless. She could barely see the large shapes of once luxurious furniture through the blanket of night. The walls seemed at once distant and enclosing, so far away in the quiet dark, but still trapping her in, the weight of it settling heavily on her as she closed the door.<p>

The man sat patiently at a table in the center of the room, entirely motionless but for the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders that indicated that he was breathing. His body was swathed in a cloak, the hood pulled up to shield his face. She saw nothing that would aid her in identifying him, yet she could sense authority in the way he held himself. His was the aura of someone important. Of course, to her, anyone with a name that meant money was important. There were too many men like that in the castle for her to be able to guess his identity.

"Irma Fieldler," the man spoke. His voice was deep, steady, and smooth.

"Yes, My Lord," she said.

She saw movement as she slowly approached the table, and heard the clattering and tinkling of coins as a small bag was carelessly thrown onto the table in front of an empty seat. The tie came loose to show the gold within.

Cautiously, Irma took the chair that had been pulled out for her prior to her arrival. Her eyes darted between the bag of gold and the shadowed figure across from her.

"How long have you worked in the kitchens here at Blood Pledge Castle?" the man asked.

"Twenty years, My Lord."

"Twenty years," he repeated, as if to mull over the response. "And your primary duty is...?"

Irma suspected he already knew. But he was powerful and wealthy, so she answered him anyway. "I tend to the drinks, My Lord."

"Yes, that's right," he said.

She swallowed nervously to clear her throat and sat stiffly in her chair with her hands clasped in her lap. Her eyes continued to sweep around the room in a vain attempt to observe more through the darkness.

"You have two children, do you not?" the man suddenly inquired.

"Yes, My Lord," Irma said. An uneasy sweat broke out along her brown. "A boy and a girl, My Lord."

"And you mother is ill, is she not?"

"Y-Yes, My Lord."

"Surely you would not wish for anything to happen to them."

"N-No... No, My Lord."

She heard a rustling and saw something shift beneath his cloak. When the movement stopped, a hand adorned with golden rings stretched across the table and set a clear vial in front of her. Once the hand retracted itself to slip back beneath the folds of his cloak, Irma carefully picked up the vial and turned it over in her hands. A thin, silvery liquid sloshed around inside.

"W-What is this, My Lord?"

"Never you mind what it is," he said.

"Then... w-what would you have be do with it... My Lord...?"

"I want you to pour that into Prince Wolfram's wine."

Irma froze, her eyes focused on the vial in her hand. She set the vial back onto the table. She didn't need the man to tell her what it was to know what he intended it to do.

"I couldn't..." she said. Her voice was a breathless whisper.

His hand shot out again. It captured her wrist in a vice-like grip before she could pull away.

"If you do this for me, Ms. Fieldler, that bag," he said, motioning with a jerk of his head to the small sack of gold," and all it contains will be yours."

Her eyes fastened on the gold. She swallowed convulsively. "M-My Lord..."

"If you refuse," he said, tightening his grip on her wrist in warning, "or if you speak a word of this to anyone, _anyone_, I will see that your family pays the price."

Irma whimpered and looked again to the vial beneath her hand.

"Do you understand?" the man asked.

Irma nodded with tears in her eyes. When the man pulled his hand away, she took the vial and slipped it into one of the pockets of her apron. Then she rubbed at her wrist to soothe the skin he'd gripped too tightly.

"W-When should I...?" she began. She could not finish the thought.

"There is to be a banquet held in a fortnight," he said.

Irma whimpered again. "B-But, My Lord, that's-"

"The kitchens will be busy. The reception hall will be crowded. No one will see you. No one will know."

Her fear was not assuaged. Irma rocked back and forth in her chair and continued to whimper pitifully.

"If you fail me," the man warned her, taking back the bag of gold to slip it beneath his cloak, "you can be sure that you will never see your family again. I swear to you, one word of this to anyone, and they will suffer for it."

She nodded to show she understood.

Gracefully, the figure across from her stood from his seat and circled around the table. He said nothing more. He didn't need to. Sure and silent, he made for the door and left the room, shutting it firmly behind him. The finality of it was so sharp Irma's body jolted with fear.

Alone with her thoughts and the knowledge of what she must do, one poor scullery maid lowered her face into her hands and wept in the darkness.

**To Be Continued...**


	3. Chapter Three: Dearly Beloved

**Disclaimer: ** I do not own Kyou Kara Maou or any of its characters. All of the original characters were, however, created by me.

**Beta-ed by: **G, whose support through all these years will forever be appreciated.

**Warnings:** Language, violence, general dark/adult themes, angst, sexual content, sexual content of dubious consent, blood, torture, and OC!character death.

**Pairings:** Yuuri/Wolfram. Other side pairings will be mentioned, including Murata/Elizabeth and Lyron/Wolfram.

**Setting: **Seven years post Season 2. Three years after the events of _Love and War_. Yuuri is 23, Wolfram is 89 (17), and Greta is 18. As with _Love and War_, please ignore all OVAs as well as the entirety of Season 3.

**Rating: **M

**A/N:** It's been well over three years since I've updated this story. I am so, so sorry. For a while I was busy working an awful job, then even when I got a newer, better one I was struggling with depression and anxiety. I'm doing somewhat better now, but I won't make any promises that I'll be able to post frequently. It'll all depend on my level of motivation, and these days my motivation is pretty low.

Part of the reason I avoided continuing this for so long is because I absolutely hated reading it. I've always struggled with my writing style. Sometimes I'm too wordy; sometimes I think I'm not wordy enough. In any case, I went through and heavily edited the first two chapters to make them more tolerable for me to read. They're mostly the same as they were, I just got rid of a lot of unnecessary paragraphs and condensed things a bit. Some of the dialogue was also updated, but the results of each conversation are the same. The only scene to see any dramatic rewrites is the intimate scene between Yuuri and Wolfram in chapter two. That was cut down _a lot_.

Another reason I've had so much trouble writing this is the divergence from canon. I'm terribly fond of the anime canon. Creating my own Aristocrats seemed necessary when I began writing _Love and War_, which I started brainstorming even before season 2 of the anime ended. Since then we've been presented with a third season which introduced the Aristocrats by name. I rather like them, especially Waltorana, so while I'll be continuing this story with the Aristocrats I created, I may attempt to bring the others in at a later time. By the end of this, there'll be a good opening for them to replace the ones I created.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Between Kings<strong>_

by Mikage

**Chapter Three** – _**Dearly Beloved**_

"We come together this day in celebration of the joining together of Her Grace the Lady Elizabeth, and His Eminence the Great Sage."

It was a more intimate ceremony than what Wolfram remembered of his own. Then the throne room had been packed with guests, the walk down the aisle torturously long. But he'd married the King, of course, which in itself seemed to necessitate a lavish affair.

Elizabeth stood in the center of the lower chamber of the Great One's Temple; the Great Sage stood across from her. The rest of the chamber was filled with only as many people as could safely line the walls. The Aristocrats stood in a long file down the eastern wall, Gwendal and Winifred at each end with the rest in-between. Yuuri's parents stood in the place reserved for family; the Great Sage had not deemed it necessary to bring his own, and Elizabeth had only her Uncle Raven, who stood with them near Wolfram's mother and father. They were joined by Hube, Nicola, and their son, and Greta with Katherine, Brigitta, Merry, and Alexei.

Wolfram stood on Yuuri's left, facing Elizabeth from the south; Yuuri, of course, faced the Great Sage. The old priest stood across from them to the north, his eyes occasionally flicking down to scan the pages of an ancient tome placed upon an alter.

"At this time, many would ask, 'Who gives this lady in marriage?'" the priest said. "But I ask simply if the Lady Elizabeth comes of her own free will. Lady Elizabeth, is it true that you come to this union of your own accord?"

"Yes," Elizabeth said. Her voice was firm and even. She looked at no one but His Eminence. "I come joyfully of my own free will."

"Your Majesty, do you offer your blessings upon this marriage?"

"I do," Yuuri said.

He looked as handsome as ever in his formal uniform. Crisp white trousers clung to his thighs. The cut of his black jacket accentuated the width of his shoulders, upon which was draped a purple cape. He wore all the chords and accoutrements of a King, gold and precious stones which glittered in the light refracting through the glass-bottomed fountain high above them.

Yuuri stood straight and tall. There was not a single sign of a slouching youth in the line of his back or the set of his shoulders, a vast improvement many years in the making. He bore the discomfort of his formal crown without complaint, made no move to shift his weight around in his boots, and held his arm level for Wolfram to place his hand in the crook of his elbow.

Briefly, Wolfram gave Yuuri's inner elbow a gentle squeeze of support.

"Know now before you go further," the priest continued, "that as your lives have crossed in this life, you have formed ties between each other. As you seek to enter this state of matrimony, you should strive to make real the ideals which give meaning to this ceremony and to the institution of marriage. With awareness, know that within this circle you are not only declaring your intent to be hand-fasted before His Majesty King Yuuri and these assembled witnesses, but you speak that intent also to a higher power.

"The promises made today and the ties that are bound here strengthen your union. Do you seek to enter the ceremony?"

Together, Elizabeth and the Great Sage said, "We do."

"Your Majesty?"

Wolfram slipped his hand away. Yuuri caught it hastily and gave Wolfram's fingers a squeeze in return. Then Yuuri released Wolfram's hand and stepped forward.

Wolfram could not see Yuuri's face, but he observed with pride Yuuri's formal posture, listening to his calm voice resonate throughout the chamber.

"On Earth," Yuuri began, "in times past, it was believed that the soul shared characteristics with all things divine. This belief assigned virtues to the cardinal directions; East, South, West, and North. In our Kingdom, these virtues coincide with the elements of nature. It is therefore in this tradition, a combination of our two worlds, that I give my blessings.

"Blessed be this union with the gifts of the wind."

He summoned the wind, which blew gently into the chamber from nonexistence. It coalesced around Elizabeth and the Great Sage in a ring of shimmering silver air.

From his place among the Aristocrats, Wolfram knew Gunter was beaming.

"Communication of the heart, mind, and soul," Yuuri said. "Fresh beginnings with the rising of each sun. The knowledge of the growth found in the sharing of silence.

"Blessed be this union with fire."

Yuuri summoned this as well, drawing the element from the torches that lines the walls. Bright flames flickered to life and danced around the pair, throwing gold light onto their joyful faces. The flames emitted a warmth indicative of Yuuri, gentler than the raging inferno that was Wolfram's habit.

"Warmth of hearth and home. The heat of the heart's passion. The light created by both to lighten the darkest of times.

"Blessed be this union with the gifts of water."

A small stream of water trickled down from the ceiling as if summoned from the fountain above, falling in drops like rain that joined the rings of air and fire around Elizabeth and His Eminence.

"The deep commitment of the lake," Yuuri continued. "The swift excitement of the river. The refreshing cleansing of the rain. The all encompassing passion of the sea.

"Blessed be this union with the gifts of the Earth."

Bits of dirt seemed to rise from the groves between the floor stones.

"Firm foundation on which to build. Fertility of the fields to enrich your lives. A stable home to which you may always return.

"Each of these blessings emphasizes those things which will help you build a happy and successful union. But they are only tools which you must use together in order to create what you seek."

The four elemental rings swirled around the pair for a few moments longer before dissipating and vanishing into the air. Yuuri stepped back into place beside Wolfram, who slipped his hand back onto Yuuri's elbow.

He remembered their wedding day, now four years in the past, and the unease with which Yuuri had recited his parts of the ceremony; and before, as a new King, Yuuri's lengthy, rambling speeches with no point and no direction. Presently, Yuuri stood in stark contrast, perhaps not as regal as others might expect, but with a confidence Wolfram had slowly nurtured within him.

Here Yuuri was, not as an ignorant boy-King, but as a grown man—strong and able, speaking at his best friend's wedding with sureness and ease. Wolfram could not have been more proud. Young though he may still be, Yuuri nonetheless continued to take strides toward greatness.

Elizabeth dipped a grateful curtsy, the Great Sage following suit with a bow.

The priest bowed as well, only to rise and continue, "Your Grace, Your Eminence, I ask that you each join your right hands."

Elizabeth's hand joined that of the Great Sage with warmth and familiarity. Wolfram struggled not to give in to a wistful frown, holding tight to Yuuri's arm.

"As your hands are joined, so too are your lives. I ask Your Grace, will you cause His Eminence pain?"

"I may," Elizabeth said.

"Is that your intent?"

"No."

"Your Eminence," the priest turned to the Great Sage and tipped a brief bow of the head. "Will you cause the Lady Elizabeth pain?"

"I may," the Great Sage said.

"Is that your intent?"

"No."

"Will you share each other's pain and seek to erase it?"

"We will," they said together.

"And so the binding is made."

The priest retrieved a pale yellow cord from the alter. He circled around the podium to stand directly before the couple, wending the cord around their joined hands.

"Lady Elizabeth, will you share his laughter?"

"Yes."

"Your Eminence, will you share her laughter?"

"I will."

"Will the both of you look for the brightness in life and the positive in each other?"

"We will."

"And so the binding is made."

The priest took another cord from the alter, this one a pristine white. This, too, was wrapped around their hands.

"Lady Elizabeth, will you burden him?"

"I may."

"Is that your intent?"

"No."

"Your Eminence, will you burden her?"

"I may."

"Is that your intent?"

"No."

"Will you share the burdens of each other so that your spirits may grow in unison?"

"We will."

"And so the binding is made."

A third cord was soon added to the previous two, as green as summer grass.

"Lady Elizabeth, will you share his dreams?" the priest said.

"Yes."

"Your Eminence, will your share her dreams?"

"Yes."

"Will you dream together to create new realities and hopes?"

"We will."

"And so the binding is made."

A fourth cord, this one as blue as a cloudless summer sky.

"Lady Elizabeth, will your cause him anger?"

"I may."

"Is that your intent?"

"No."

"Your Eminence, will you cause her anger?"

To Wolfram, the expression on His Eminence's face seemed foreign. It bore a softness he was used to with Yuuri, but it was not a look he was accustomed to on the likes of Muarat Ken. Typically the Great Sage looked jovial, but in a cheeky, exuberant way, not tender as he was now. His eyes were usually bright with mirth, not with love.

And it crushed Wolfram's heart to see the love in His Eminence's eyes. It was the first time since His Eminence made his interest in Elizabeth known that Wolfram even noticed it.

Elizabeth was fortunate, to stand there on her wedding day and see such love staring back at her.

"I may," His Eminence said.

"Is that your intent?" the priest continued.

"No."

"Will you take the heat of anger and use it to temper the strength of this union?"

"We will," His Eminence and Elizabeth said in unison.

"And so the binding his made."

A red cord was the fifth to be added.

"Lady Elizabeth, will you honor His Eminence?"

"I will."

"Your Eminence, will you honor Her Grace?"

"I will."

"Will you seek never to give cause to break that honor?"

"We shall never do so," they said together.

"And so the binding is made."

Black, the last cord, wended over and through the others.

Wolfram looked into Elizabeth's face, saw His Eminence's love returned in her eyes, and struggled not to envy the Sage that honor. Though Wolfram and Elizabeth would never have been suited for one another, it was nonetheless quite difficult to watch as she was married to another. In the absence of her late parents, Wolfram felt in his heart as if he were the one giving her away.

He needn't have worried, of course. His Eminence's gaze never strayed from Elizabeth. His eyes had locked on her at the start of the ceremony and neither dropped nor drifted. His typical carelessness was nowhere to be seen. There were no frivolous jokes, no inappropriate innuendos. Instead, the Sage stood stoic and expectant, the smallest of smiles gracing his lips as he looked into Elizabeth's eyes as if there were no greater honor in his life.

Wolfram wondered how he'd not seen it sooner. They gazed upon one another with such devotion, such tenderness, as if they desired nothing more than each other.

He knew that feeling. Again, Wolfram's hand tightened on Yuuri's arm.

"As you pull your hands apart," the priest said, "you will see the knot of this binding. Let this it be a symbol of the vows you take today."

Slowly Elizabeth and the Great Sage slid their hands apart. The cords tightened as they did so. Indeed, it soon hung between them in an impressive knot.

Messy, but then all marriages were, Wolfram thought.

The priest took the knotted cords and held them aloft to be viewed by the assembled guests. Then he placed them upon the alter with reverence.

He eyed Wolfram next, lowering into another respectful bow. Wolfram released Yuuri's arm to step toward Elizabeth and the Great Sage.

For a moment he was unable to speak, overcome as he was by the moment. Wolfram swallowed through the emotion that tightened his throat. He lifted his left hand to present a pair of platinum bands, one with black diamonds embedded along the perimeter, and the other thick and without adornment.

Wolfram cleared his throat. On his exposed finger sat the ring Yuuri's mother had given him four years ago, as brilliant now as it had been then. It was lovingly cared for, meaningful in a way Wolfram had not expected, for although it had not been presented to him by Yuuri, and although it had not been given to seal a vow, it nevertheless symbolized Wolfram's place by Yuuri's side.

"Your Eminence, Elizabeth," Wolfram began. "I present to you these rings."

He paused to swallow again. Neither Elizabeth nor the Great Sage seemed to notice the difficulty he had in continuing. Behind Wolfram, Yuuri shifted and placed a supportive hand against Wolfram's back.

"For centuries, our comrades on Earth have expressed their vows with an exchange of rings," Wolfram said. "Let these rings be a sign that love has a past, a present, and a future. May the promises which you have spoken to one another today remain forever in your hearts.

"Let these rings serve as a visible, tangible symbol of your love and commitment. These rings shall announce to the world that you have recognized in each other your soul's mate, that you have entwined together to become one, and that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. As these rings are designed without an ending, they speak of eternity. May the incorruptible substance of these rings represent a love glowing with increasing luster through the years. I bless these rings which you shall give to one another as a sign of your love, your trust, and your faithfulness."

Wolfram reached across the pair to hand the rings to the priest, who took them with careful hands, cradling them between his palms. The priest dipped a bow as Wolfram stepped back. Yuuri's hand slid from Wolfram's back to his waist.

"Your Eminence," the priest said, handing the thinner of the two rings to him, "please take this ring and make your vows as you place it upon Her Grace's hand."

Elizabeth's smile was brilliant as His Eminence slipped the ring onto her finger.

"Take this ring as a sign of my love," His Eminence said, "and as a symbol of all that we share, in token and pledge of my constant faith and abiding love."

"Your Grace, please take this ring and make your vows as you place it upon His Eminence's hand."

The priest presented Elizabeth with the second ring. She stared unflinchingly into His Eminence's eyes as she slid it onto the appropriate finger.

"Take this ring as a sign of my love, and as a symbol of all that we share, in token and pledge of my constant faith and abiding love."

Her voice was all warmth and tenderness.

This was it, Wolfram thought. He was no longer the first man in Elizabeth's life. Wolfram suspected he had not been so for quite some time, but the climax of the ceremony drove the notion home more firmly than the Sage's flirting over the dinner table or Elizabeth's gushing over tea. Wolfram knew that it was selfish to wish that he could always take prominence in Elizabeth's heart when he could not offer her the same, yet wish it he did.

Never again would she look upon Wolfram as she looked upon His Eminence. That time was over; it had ended years ago, when Wolfram had chosen Yuuri over Elizabeth, and when Elizabeth had given her blessings in turn.

Wolfram viewed the moment not with love and well-wishes, but with sorrow. His arms ached to hold Merry; instead, his thumb worked his ring around and around his finger.

"No one but you can declare yourselves married," the priest said. "You have begun your declaration here today in speaking your vows before Their Majesties and these witnesses, and you will do so again in the days and years to come. May you stand by one another, and share all the sweet and the bitter of life. Each act of tenderness, each loving word, will be another declaration of what was made here today.

"In the honesty and sincerity of what you have said and done here today, and in accordance with the laws of this our Great Demon Kingdom, it is my honor and delight to name you husband and wife. You mat seal your vows with a kiss."

The chamber erupted into applause as their lips met. Wolfram raised his hands to follow suit but found that they trembled noticeably as he did so. Yuuri turned to him and caught both of Wolfram's hands, bringing the left up to his mouth to kiss.

Yuuri said nothing to comfort him, but his eyes spoke the words his voice could not utter in present company.

[i]'I love you... I love you... I love you...'[/i]

* * *

><p>Irma Fieldler thought of her family as she fingered the vial stashed safely in the pocket of her apron.<p>

Wary eyes skittered around the kitchen. The kitchens at Blood Pledge were always a crowded place whenever a banquet took place. Years ago, during the days of Queen Cecilie, the servants had learned how best to handle their responsibilities during such events. As a group, they were a well oiled machine. They each had their own place, only bothering one another to inquire after some assistance.

The preparations for that evening's banquet were nearly complete. The kitchen smelled strongly of cooked meat and spices. Irma dragged a hand along her brow, removing a layer of sweat that glistened there. It was understandably hot; with the added weight of what she must do set upon her shoulders, the heat felt stifling. Irma stood at her station, staring at a golden goblet full of red wine. She hesitated a few moments more. Naturally she had second thoughts, yet what choice did she have?

If she failed, the lives of her family, of her sick mother and young children, were forfeit. And if she succeeded, she risked loosing her own life in the process.

When she was sure the rest were too focused on their respective tasks to notice, Irma slipped the vial with the silvery liquid out of her apron pocket. Carefully she uncorked the vial and brought it to the goblet. Her hand shook as she held it there.

There was no point asking herself what she intended to accomplish by doing this, or whether or not she meant to go through with it. She'd known what she would do the evening the man in the shadows of the guest wing had given her the vial and offered her a satchel of gold in return.

Before she risked being noticed, Irma tipped the contents of the vial into the wine. Once the vial was empty, she slipped it back into her pocket. She took the wine goblet, sloshed it around to mix the two liquids together. Then she placed the goblet back onto the tabletop, and stared into its depths like it would reveal her fate to her.

She could end it before it even began. She could pour out just enough to ensure that it wouldn't be lethal. Perhaps that would spare her execution. The man in the shadows could not blame her. She'd done what he'd asked. The contents of the vial simply hadn't been strong enough. It wasn't any fault of her own, but of the nobleman who'd procured the concoction. Perhaps he'd trusted the wrong sources. Perhaps he hadn't received the quality of product he'd thought.

"Irma," Doria came up behind her, clasping a hand to her shoulder.

Irma jumped and spun around. A hand came to her chest as if to still her wildly beating heart.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Doria said. "Only, you forgot to take Prince Wolfram's drink to the high table with all the rest."

"I did?" Irma asked. She sounded suitably dismayed. "I... I'm so sorry, I didn't notice, I... I'll bring it right away."

Doria nodded and patted Irma's shoulder in silent support, as if to say, "It's alright. It's a busy night."

Irma took the goblet of wine and made her way out of the kitchen, leaving the hustle and bustle behind for the equally crowded banquet hall. Here noblemen and women sat enjoying their meals. Some flitted about, schmoozing amongst one another the way all rich, powerful people seemed to. They bestowed flattery upon one another, laughed jovially even at those with the poorest sense of humor, and exchanged court gossip as nosily as the maids.

None of them noticed Irma squeezing her way through the crowd with a goblet of wine. She'd not expected them to. After all, a proper servant did his or her best not to interrupt their betters. Those who might have seen her as they looked in her direction overlooked her completely. She was a nobody to these people. She expected few of them even knew her name.

Prince Wolfram sat at the high table on the King's left. Irma paused briefly upon seeing him there—marveling as she'd always marveled at Prince Wolfram's mother.

He was one of the loveliest men she'd ever seen in all her life, his beauty not as sophisticated as that of Lord Gunter, but something to behold nonetheless. He did not wear black that evening, but purple, with a coronet of gold, amethyst, and emerald perched atop his hair. The fair golden strands had been rolled back out of his face and fastened with pins at the nape of his neck. His pale skin seemed to glow in the torchlight; he looked ethereal, almost otherworldly.

Prince Merriel sat in Prince Wolfram's lap in Bielefeld blue; Princess Greta sat to Prince Wolfram's left in matching purple—the very image of a charming family.

And all so young. Prince Wolfram was little more than a child himself. Only eighty-nine. Her son would reach that age in just thirty more years.

How could she live with herself after what she was about to do?

"Your Majesty," Irma dipped a curtsy when she arrived at the high table. She kept her eyes lowered, but saw His Majesty the King spare her a wide smile out of her peripheral vision.

Her hand shook as she placed the goblet onto the table. If prompted to explain, she could blame nervousness caused by being before the King. Rarely was she so close to them. Never had she been so near to them that she could see the color of their eyes—if she ever dared to look.

"Your wine, Your Majesty," she said.

Prince Wolfram didn't even look at her as he took the goblet; he brought it to his mouth without examining the contents, so focused was he on his conversation with the Princess Greta. Had he but a moment for one poor scullery maid, he might have seen the look of anguish upon her face and recognized it for what it was. But of course he didn't. She'd not expected him to. Her life and her troubles were such insignificant concerns to a Prince.

She fell into a deeper curtsy as she slowly backed away from the table.

"Thank you," the King called out to her.

On instinct she lifted her eyes and met his. It took her breath away, and not simply because she was looking upon the King.

Irma thought it was the first and last time she would look at him and see such open kindness in his dark eyes.

"Your Majesty," she said.

She scurried off before another word was said.

* * *

><p>"Certainly not my favorite wine," Wolfram announced.<p>

He stared into his goblet as if the drink had done him a grave offense, his face screwed up into something like disgust.

Yuuri snorted into his own goblet, earning an exasperated look from his husband. He winced and smiled an apology, covering his inelegant mistake with a quiet chuckle.

"It tastes fine," he said.

"You'll drink anything," Wolfram countered.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Only that you're opinions on what constitutes good wine must be taken with a grain of salt."

"Don't look at me, Murata and Elizabeth were the ones who decided on the wine."

Yuuri watched Wolfram's eyes flick in the direction of the couple in question. Murata and Elizabeth sat front and center, where he and Wolfram would have been had this been any other banquet. Murata was to Yuuri's immediate right, with Elizabeth on Murata's other side. Yuuri rather enjoyed the shift in attention. Let Murata deal with the fawning courtiers for a change. Yuuri was content to sit by and enjoy his dinner.

Wolfram was not as content. Yuuri could see that without confirmation from his husband. The way Wolfram held Merry in his lap told Yuuri everything he needed to know about Wolfram's emotional state. Yuuri wished he could soothe him, but the most he could do at the table was place a hand along Wolfram's thigh and give it a comforting squeeze.

He'd given Wolfram many of those throughout the day.

"His Eminence's tastes are even less refined than yours," Wolfram said.

"I don't know, if I couldn't have you, Elizabeth was next on my list."

Wolfram stared at him, aghast. His expression soon turned dark, almost murderous.

"It was a joke, Wolf," Yuuri said.

"And in poor taste," Wolfram said.

"Didn't we just go over my lack of good taste?"

Wolfram turned from him to stick his nose in the air. Yuuri watched as Wolfram drew Merry even closer, cuddling the baby against his chest. For once, Merry seemed intent upon struggling away from Wolfram. There were too many things to see and too much trouble to get into for him to sit patiently at the table.

"Kat!" Yuuri called.

In the middle of a conversation with Conrad, the nanny nevertheless scuttled over at Yuuri's summons.

"Yes, Your Majesty?" she said after dipping the requisite curtsy.

"If you wouldn't mind, could you relieve Wolfram of Merry."

"Yes, of course, Your Majesty."

"Yuuri," Wolfram began, "I can handle Merry on my own for one night."

"But I want to dance," Yuuri said.

It wasn't often he volunteered for such things. Indeed, the incredulous look Wolfram gave him seemed to prove otherwise.

Even so, Wolfram stood from his chair to pass Merry off to Kat with the sort of determination that made it seem as if he had something he wanted to prove, taking a large swig of wine to fortify himself.

Yuuri would have been offended if he wasn't already well aware of his own shortcomings.

He took Wolfram's hand before Wolfram could go too far, brought Wolfram's fingers to his elbow and led him around the table. Wolfram gave a long-suffering sigh in response, pinching the skin of Yuuri's inner elbow. It wasn't painful. Try as he might to appear aloof and disinterested, Wolfram's heart just wasn't in it.

Wolfram was upset and trying his damnedest not to be. Yuuri could see it in Wolfram's eyes, in the subtle droop of Wolfram's shoulders, in the somewhat strained tone of Wolfram's voice. Wolfram could fool everyone else with his quiet reserve and forced pleasantries; he likely thought he'd managed to fool Yuuri with it as well. But Yuuri recognized the signs Wolfram didn't even know he was displaying; Yuuri could see the things in Wolfram that Wolfram didn't want to see in himself.

Yuuri could almost understand. Wolfram felt as if he'd just lost his best friend to someone else. Though Yuuri didn't quite feel the same in regards to Murata, he assumed it had little to do with the strength of their friendship and more to do with just how long Wolfram and Elizabeth had been fond of one another. They'd grown up together, shared a wet nurse and nannies if the stories were to be believed, whereas Yuuri had not known Murata until junior high school and only befriended him years later.

Wolfram was longing for more than his best friend.

He was longing for a sister.

In that, Yuuri thought, they were alike. Yuuri would likely have felt the same if Shouri or Conrad were ever to be married.

"What's come over you that has you in such deep thought?" Wolfram said.

In the center of the dance floor, they moved together with practiced ease. What grace or skill Yuuri lacked, Wolfram more than made up for. Yuuri, to his credit, was not quite the bumbling idiot he used to be when thrust in front of a crowd of people to the strains of music. He was by no means a quick study, but he was a determined one.

"Nothing," Yuuri said. "Just thinking about how beautiful you look."

Wolfram rolled his eyes like the compliment was unappreciated, yet Yuuri could see the small quirk of Wolfram's lips that signified a reluctant smile.

It was entirely true, though Yuuri would admit he was probably biased in that respect. He'd thought Wolfram was beautiful long before there were any feelings between them, of course, so Yuuri was at least confident he wasn't far off the mark; he simply thought his opinions might be a bit idealized. He looked at Wolfram and he saw perfection, not in the absence of any flaws, but because those flaws endeared Wolfram to him as much as any virtue.

Fashion conscious as he was, Wolfram was dressed impeccably, each piece of his outfit specifically chosen to enhance his good looks. Try as Wolfram might to adopt it as his own, black just wasn't his color. He was too fair for it. Logic would dictate that it would be no different on Lady Celi, but she was more open with herself, not merely with her body but with her thoughts and feelings. She looked elegant in black—sophisticated, sexy.

Wolfram, far more formal and self-conscious than his mother, looked stoic and severe in black, covered from head to toe even in the event that he wore short pants and stockings. Black aged him and slimmed him down to the point that he looked weathered and skinny, almost sickly. Wolfram didn't have the personality for black. He was far too bright.

He looked better in color—in the blues indicative of Bielefeld, or the greens Yuuri associated with casual dress and travel. For this occasion, Wolfram wore purple. It looked better against Wolfram's skin tone and brought out the color of his eyes.

"You look quite handsome yourself," Wolfram said. He brought a hand to Yuuri's face, lightly fingered the hair at Yuuri's chin. "This is a good look for you."

"You think so?"

"Mmm. Makes you appear more mature."

"So I didn't look mature before?" Yuuri said. He was not offended, his face splitting into a grin.

"Did you not hear me say '_more _mature'?"

"So it's a compliment on top of a compliment."

"You could accept it graciously," Wolfram said.

"That's not really my style."

Wolfram's expression was stuck somewhere between an amused smile and a look of annoyance, like he couldn't determine which would be more appropriate in the situation. He settled for shaking his head and drawing closer. Instead of continuing to follow the proper steps of the dance, they swayed together mindlessly, Wolfram resting comfortably against Yuuri's shoulder. Yuuri felt the shift of Wolfram's weight as Wolfram relaxed into him. He adjusted his hold accordingly.

Wolfram smelled of his rose bath oils, of fresh soap, of wine from dinner, and mint from the water he cleansed his hands in before each meal. He was not so short that his head was perfectly level with Yuuri's shoulder, so Wolfram leaned his head down to account for the difference. Soft stands of Wolfram's hair brushed against the side of Yuuri's neck, tickling the skin exposed above the collar of Yuuri's jacket. When Yuuri tilted his head to nudge the side of Wolfram's face with his nose, Wolfram's cheek was pink and warm.

Yuuri dropped a kiss onto Wolfram's face and felt the corresponding gesture pressed fleetingly against the side of his neck. He tightened his arms around Wolfram and brought a hand up to Wolfram's hair, careful not to jostle the coronet or lay to waste all the work that had been done to pin back Wolfram's hair. In the midst of such a large gathering, in a room full of faces Yuuri barely recognized, and names he could never quite keep straight in his head, this was cozy and familiar—Wolfram at his side, feeding him constant encouragement and support, while Wolfram sought comfort for himself.

Their troubles melted away, and with the attention predominantly focused on Murata and Elizabeth for the evening, Yuuri and Wolfram could exist as friends and lovers instead of as King and Consort.

Quietly, Yuuri hummed along to the music into Wolfram's hair. He paused occasionally to press his lips once again to the side of Wolfram's face. Yuuri could feel Wolfram's skin growing increasingly warmer.

"Are you trying to be romantic?" Wolfram mumbled—either in embarrassment or fatigue, Yuuri was unable to tell.

"Trying?" Yuuri wondered. "Does that mean I'm failing?"

"It was just a question, you wimp."

Yuuri smiled into Wolfram's hair and leaned down to whisper into Wolfram's ear, "We could always retire for the night and take this dance elsewhere. No one would miss us."

Wolfram hit Yuuri's shoulder in retaliation for his suggestive tone.

"Is that a no?" Yuuri asked.

"Behave," Wolfram warned him.

"So 'no' then."

"You pick the most inopportune moments."

"Oh, is that a 'yes, but later'?"

"_Yuuri_..."

"What?" Yuuri said, his voice nothing but innocence.

"I'm enjoying the moment," Wolfram told him.

"So'm I."

"Where did our innocent boy-King go?"

"He's still here somewhere. Deep down underneath all that maturity you said I have now."

"I said nothing about your behavior," Wolfram said. "I simply said you _look _mature. How one looks is not always an accurate signifier of how one typically behaves."

"You love me," Yuuri reminded him.

"Yes, but that's in spite of you—"

Wolfram came to a sudden halt. He stopped speaking, he stopped dancing, he stopped leaning into Yuuri in a relaxed fashion, but tensed as if put on his guard without warning.

Yuuri saw nothing upon scanning the crowed—certainly nothing to warrant the reaction. There were the usual irascible Aristocrats, the sycophantic nobles, the unobtrusive servants. There was no sign of danger and nothing to suggest that their moment together would be ruined except for Wolfram's reaction.

Moments later, Wolfram pulled away and swayed on his feet. He wore a curious expression on his face, confusion mixed with dread, like he was unsure what was happening but assumed the worst. That changed quickly, and his eyes grew wide as he curled in on himself, moaning in distress as his arms crossed low, over his stomach.

"Wolf..." Yuuri said, alarmed.

He grabbed Wolfram by the shoulders, attempted to heave him back upright, but Wolfram whimpered and struggled away, shaking his head back and forth so quickly Yuuri was afraid Wolfram was going to hurt his neck.

"No, no, no, no, no," Wolfram chanted.

"What? Wolfram, what is it? What's wrong?"

"I... I feel..."

"What?" Yuuri tried again, panicking when no answer came.

Wolfram's head came up to look at him, green eyes wide. Yuuri's stomach dropped nauseatingly when he saw fear in Wolfram's gaze.

"Wolf!"

Wolfram coughed, a harsh, ragged hacking sound that sent chills down Yuuri's spine. Wolfram's brought hand hand up to cover his mouth, proper even then. He held it there as if to prevent himself from spilling sick all over the floor, but soon took it away to look at his palm.

Yuuri stared, horrified, at the blood that glistened on Wolfram's lips and fingers.

"Wolfram!"

He grabbed Wolfram again just before Wolfram fell, holding him up by the arms as Wolfram's body went rigid and started to shake.

People were beginning to notice, if they hadn't already. Yuuri could hear vague noises in the background—the sound of chairs scraping against the floor, the whispers and confused muttering of the guests. Conrad called to him from somewhere; Yuuri could hear his boots tapping along the floor as his Godfather drew closer. From the high table, he could hear Elizabeth screaming and Greta calling Wolfram's name.

Wolfram clutched at Yuuri's jacket with his bloody hand. Stubbornly he lifted himself up to look Yuuri in the eye. His expression was mixed, contorted in a range of emotions—from anger, to denial, to determination, to fear. Finally something seemed to settle in Wolfram's eyes and he grew quiet. He brought his other hand to Yuuri's face; he looked sad, resigned. Wolfram's mouth twitched into a small smile, one that was strained and obviously forced.

He was making the effort for Yuuri's sake; he wanted Yuuri to see him as he had before.

Not like this.

"P-Poison..." Wolfram said, his voice quiet and weak.

Then his eyes rolled back and his body was wracked with tremors.

Yuuri felt hot tears gather in his eyes at the same time his blood ran cold.

"_GISELA!_"

* * *

><p>Elizabeth sat on the stone floor of the royal hallway. She wore her black wedding dress, the long train crumpled beneath her as she raised her knees to her chest and curled her arms around them. Earlier she'd been the very picture of a royal bride. Now she appeared ready to attend a funeral.<p>

She fingered the band of black diamonds and platinum that now adorned her left hand, twisting it around her finger in a purposeful emulation of the habit Wolfram had developed when ill at ease. The metal was warm against her thumb, as it'd been since she received it. She liked to think it was Wolfram's doing, that he'd kept it warm for her before handing it to the priest.

Beside her, Princess Greta sat with her legs curled beneath her, leaning heavily into the wall at her back. Her brown eyes stared at nothing, fixed upon the opposite wall, her expression blank. She looked paler than usual, but for the tear tracks that colored her cheeks an angry red.

Further on down the hall, toward the turn that took one away from the royal wing, Miss Katherine Algren stood with Prince Merry in her arms, shushing him quietly as he wailed, the other little children hovering fearfully at her feet. Closer to the door of the royal bedchamber were both Wolfram's and His Majesty's families. Miko Shibuya, a second mother to Wolfram and a loving substitute for Ken's own, held Lady Cecilie steady. Lady Cecilie's behavior fluctuated by the second; one moment she was crying for her youngest, and the next she was seething with righteous anger toward the culprit.

Whomever that may be.

Elizabeth tried to think back. Was there anything that stood out as unusual? With her training, she should have noticed. A shifty look in someone's eye, perhaps. Or a comment with a double meaning that had seemed so harmless at the time.

Nothing of the sort came to her. Anything she remembered vividly about that day involved Ken—the look in his eyes as they received His Majesty's blessings, the sound of his voice as they'd spoken their vows to one another. She hadn't even looked at Wolfram when he'd handed over the rings, nor had she noticed that Wolfram and His Majesty had risen from the table until they were already out on he dance floor.

Guilt tore through her, brought tears to her eyes and hindered her breathing.

Ken stood nearby, but he could not comfort her, so focused was he on the King.

His Majesty stalked up and down the hallway, his body haloed by blue light. His jaw was stiff, his eyes sharp, his hands balled into tight fists. He snapped at anyone who attempted to touch him, and glared darkly whenever someone spoke.

"Be calm, you say," he snarled. His voice was low and dark, uncharacteristic in comparison to his usual demeanor. "I will _not _be calm."

"Your Majesty—" Lord Weller chanced a cautious approach.

His Majesty turned from him, pacing in the opposite direction as he said, "_Silence_, Lord Weller."

Elizabeth shivered and lowered her face into her knees. She did not like to think about how much worse the King would become should Gisela fail to save Wolfram.

She _would _save him, Elizabeth told herself. She couldn't let herself believe otherwise.

"Then think back, Your Majesty," Wolfram's father said. "There must be something to help us determine when the poison was administered."

"Was it by touch?" Ken said. "Did he ingest it?"

His Majesty lifted a shaking fist as if he meant to bat them all away from him and cease their idle chatter, but he stopped the motion and came to a halt in the middle of the hallway, fairly close to Elizabeth, as something seemed to dawn on him.

"The wine... He had no fondness for the wine. He did not enjoy the taste."

"Did you drink from his cup?" Lord Weller asked, alarmed.

His Majesty shook his head. "No, I did not."

"What makes you so sure it was the wine?"

"His cup had not been placed at the table when we arrived. A scullery maid brought it. She was... distraught."

Elizabeth cursed the King's foolishness. He'd had all those signs staring him in the face and yet he hadn't thought anything of it until Wolfram was a writhing heap on the floor.

He must feel as guilty as she did, Elizabeth thought. He must be as angry with himself as he was with the perpetrator, for not noticing at the time.

But wasn't Wolfram even more foolish for drinking it without a second thought?

_We've become lax_, she decided. _We've all let peace dull our instincts and lull us into a false sense of security. There is no peace, simply a break in the storm._

"Lord von Voltaire, Lord Griesela," Ken's voice called out.

Elizabeth lifted her head as the two men approached. She looked between them, noted the matching expressions on their faces—both thunderous and out for blood. Ken motioned for them to join him as he turned down the hall. Elizabeth watched her new husband drift out of sight with only the briefest of glances in her direction.

At least she could read the apology on his face.

_It's alright_, she thought. _This is his duty._

"Where do you mean to go?!" His Majesty barked after them.

Ken did not turn or utter a response, but continued on his way with Lords von Voltaire and Griesela as close to his heels as propriety would allow.

"They must speak with the maids, Your Majesty," Wolfgang said. His voice was clipped, his words short. In no way did he attempt to be soothing. Such things had no effect when His Majesty was in this state.

"_I _shall speak with them!" His Majesty said.

"Do you not wish to wait for Miss Gisela's report?"

His Majesty looked conflicted, torn between his concern for Wolfram and his need to bring justice to those who had wronged him.

"His Eminence will find the maid," Lord Weller said. "She will be detained. Speak with her later."

His Majesty glared at Lord Weller, riled by his authoritative tone. He made no further move to show his displeasure; he simply went back to pacing up and down the hallway.

Elizabeth had no means to keep track of how much time passed once the sun set behind the distant hills. The royal hall grew shadowed, lit only by the wall torches and the energy which crackled and split the air around the King.

For a while, all was quiet but for Merry's fussing. Elizabeth heard Lady Cecelie weeping down the hall, and Miko's encouraging voice in response.

"Wol-chan will pull through," she said. "You'll see."

His Majesty's father and brother said nothing. Shouma Shibuya watched his youngest pace the floors, staring with an expression that was a mix of pride, awe, and unease. Shouri Shibuya's keen eyes also trailed after His Majesty; he was restrained from approaching only by his father's hand on his shoulder.

The wait felt long and torturous. The hour grew late, but none of them slept, and His Majesty's transformation did not wane. Fatigue settled heavily upon Elizabeth as the moon loomed high in the sky, but she would not allow herself to sleep. Not yet. Not until she knew what was to become of Wolfram.

Even then she could not hope to sleep without visions of Wolfram writhing on the floor and coughing blood to disturb her once pleasant dreams.

Ken returned with Lord von Voltaire and Lord Griesela in toe. All three looked grim. His Majesty faced them as soon as they turned onto the hall, his posture rigid as he waited, an impatient tick jumping along his jaw. Elizabeth pulled herself to her feet, bracing one hand against the wall as the other rose to remove the tears from her eyes.

"The maid has been apprehended," Ken said. "She has been placed in a cell in the dungeon to await your judgement."

"Her name," His Majesty demanded.

"Irma Fieldler."

"Has she confessed?"

"Yes. She begs Your Majesty's forgiveness."

"My _forgiveness_?!" His Majesty sneered, voice rising again. "She seeks my mercy after administering poison to _my_ Consort?!"

"So it would seem," Ken said.

Elizabeth found herself mildly disturbed by the uncaring tone of Ken's voice. He sounded nothing at all like the jovial man she'd fallen for but instead adopted fully the stoic demeanor of the Great Sage. He did not fear His Majesty. He did not attempt to console the King or calm him from his vengeful fury. He simply stood there, formally emotionless, as if this whole encounter were nothing more than business.

It wasn't that she hadn't known Ken had it in him to be so cold and distant; she'd always assumed his cheerfulness to be half an act. He was calculating, knew exactly which face to wear for any given situation. Ken was not all warmth the way His Majesty was outside of a transformation. There was something cold there, beneath the mirth in Ken's eyes and the wide smiles that stretched across his face. She'd accepted that side of him the day she'd accepted his proposal.

She simply hadn't expected to witness an interaction like this between Ken and the King. It took her breath away to see them, two regal double-blacks standing face to face, one coldly furious, the other lacking in any visible passion. Here were the two most powerful men in all the world confined to a single hallway. All anyone could do was remain quiet, watch, and hope against a poor outcome—for Wolfram's and His Majesty's sakes, of course, as well as their own.

A door creaked open on old hinges. From the royal bedchamber, Gisela stepped out into the hall. She looked as composed as her duties necessitated. Lord von Christ and Lady von Karbelnikoff followed behind her, closing the door softly; their faces was drawn and tired, but not distraught as Elizabeth would expect had their efforts taken a bad turn.

"Well?" His Majesty prompted.

That he'd held the transformation so long was a testament to his overpowering anger and grief.

"Prince Wolfram's condition has stabilized," Gisela announced.

Their was a collective breath of relief shared by all those but Ken and His Majesty.

His Majesty remained expectant, though Elizabeth saw some of the tension leave the stiff line of his shoulders.

"He regained consciousness soon after he was brought to your room. We were able to empty his stomach to prevent any further spread of the poison, but the effects will linger. It will likely take months for him to recover."

"And the poison?"

"Dragon's Breath," Lady von Karbelnikoff said. "In very small doses its not quite so fast acting. We can therefore assume that the poison was administered in a larger dose within the last twenty-four hours."

"It was the wine," His Majesty said. "At the banquet."

"I thought as much. Wolfram's fortunate it was wine. Alcohol stems the effect of Dragon's Breath somewhat. If it'd been slipped into his water it surely would have been fatal. Whoever administered it must not have known."

"Irma Fieldler."

"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?"

"The maid, Irma Fieldler. It was she who brought the poisoned drink."

Lady von Karbelnikoff looked perplexed by this revelation but made no further comment on the matter.

"Your Majesty," Gisela intervened. Her composure fell just slightly. There was sorrow written into her features—pity and sadness. "There will be side-effects."

The King's frown darkened. "Of what sort?"

"Dragon's Breath affects what you would call the nervous system. He may experience short term or long term memory loss. His vision will likely be impaired. It could be permanent or temporary. At this stage there's no way for us to tell. We'll also likely see some impairment in his motor functions. It may be that he'll have to relearn basic tasks."

"'It could be,' 'it may be,'" His Majesty observed. "You speak in uncertainties."

"I only wish to prepare you for the worst case scenario, Your Majesty," Gisela said. She stared into his eyes unflinchingly. "He may wake and not remember your name. He may not be able to identify you by sight. In all likelihood he will no longer be the same man he was today."

His Majesty's jaw stiffened, his hands curling into tighter fists. He looked as if he would hit something—or someone, should they get in his way.

Wisely, no one approached the King. Not His Majesty's mother, not His Majesty's father, not Lord Shouri, not either of Wolfram's brothers or Lord von Christ. Greta wept at Elizabeth's side; she clutched at a handkerchief embroidered with the royal crest. The hallway crew silent again but for the sound of poor Greta's tears and Lady Cecilie's ragged breathing. Even Merry had quieted, as if he'd sensed the tension in the all. He stared with wide blue eyes.

No one knew what to say, or what to do. There was no way any of them could comfort the King when they needed comfort themselves.

His Majesty was beyond comfort, in any case. Elizabeth could see it in the cold fury that sharpened his gaze.

"I will speak with the maid," His Majesty announced. "Lords Weller and von Voltaire, Admiral von Bielefeld, and the Great Sage will accompany me."

"Yuuri..." Greta whimpered. It was the first word she'd spoken since shouting Wolfram's name across the banquet hall.

His Majesty turned to her. For just a moment it looked as if he would not be affected by her tears, but he softened somewhat in the face of her misery. One hand uncurled and rose from his side, brushing the tears from her cheeks.

"Weep not," he said. "All will be well."

Greta made an attempt at a wobbly smile.

His Majesty withdrew his hand without another word. He turned on his heel to begin stalking down the hall. Ken followed dutifully, catching Elizabeth's eye as he passed.

She met him with a nod, as if to say, "Do what you have to."

Prince Merry grew restless as the King took heavy strides in his direction. Miss Algren held the baby close, brushing his hair from his face and kissing his cheeks to soothe him as the other children, Brigitta and Alexei, curled up together along the floor. Merry seemed not to notice the nanny's efforts. For once, he had eyes only for His Majesty.

The King passed without looking at him, without pausing to offer comfort as he had with Greta.

Merry let out a plaintive cry when His Majesty turned onto another hall. Elizabeth's heart went out to the poor child as she heard him weep a tearful, "Papa!"

It pained her that Wolfram was not there to hear it.

* * *

><p>Conrart did not let his trepidation show as he followed behind Yuuri and His Eminence with Gwendal and Wolfgang. He was well practiced at appearing unruffled and stoic, perhaps not as disciplined as Gwendal in the art of the dispassionate stare, but adequate when the time came. At that moment, he knew they all wore the same expression, and carried with them a similar thought.<p>

They had come close to losing Wolfram, and losing Yuuri in the process.

Others tread the same halls. Courtiers and servants peered at the group of Lords as they passed. None approached. None attempted to speak with the King. They huddled by the walls and whispered between themselves, shrinking back in the face of Yuuri's anger.

The passionate outrage Yuuri had shown before seemed to have tempered into something more controlled. For hours the transformation had lingered; what began in the banquet hall showed no signs of fading. Yuuri had not had the chance to grieve. Conrart was beginning to think that was the point; Yuuri either didn't _want _to face what was happening, or couldn't do so on his own.

It was saddening to Conrart to think that Yuuri could not bring himself to turn to him in his time of need. Conrart thought he understood it. He had known Yuuri as a baby, had watched him grow from an adolescent into an adult, had seen him take his first awkward steps into manhood, had listened to Yuuri's complaints and fears until each problem was resolved. Slowly, ever so slowly, Wolfram had taken on that role instead. Perhaps Conrart remained Yuuri confidante, but Wolfram was his comfort, his support, and the heart of his strength.

Conrart did not begrudge his younger brother. He simply worried for Yuuri's sanity in those moment's when Wolfram was in less than perfect condition.

They came to the dungeon soon enough. The guards standing by the door bowed before the King and permitted them entrance.

"Where is the maid?" Yuuri demanded of His Eminence.

His Eminence did not speak, merely stepped ahead of them to lead Yuuri to the appropriate cell.

A pitiful looking woman laid curled upon the ground, arms wrapped about her raised knees as she rocked back and forth, back and forth. Wisps of mousy brown hair escaped from the bun it had been twisted into, as if she'd ran her fingers through it over and over, clawing at her scalp as she wailed. Her face was tearstained, pale with fear and smeared with dirt. She shook visibly when they appeared at the cell bars, looking from one to the other with increasing terror.

She looked at Yuuri last, stared straight into his eyes as if she knew what was to come and thought she must face it head on.

His Eminence opened the cell with a key given to him by one of the guards. Yuuri strode in first, followed by Gwendal, Wolfgang, and His Eminence. Conrart was the last to enter. He closed the cell behind him and drifted into the corner, into a better vantage point from which to see both the maid and Yuuri.

Yuuri's face, when Conrart saw it, was strangely blank.

Conrart expected the seething anger from before. An appearance from the Demon King meant a harsh sentence and swiftly executed justice. The Demon King did not accept excuses. He accused and he judged, no matter who might prostrate themselves before him. Only Gwendal had ever gotten through to Yuuri when the Demon King had taken over, and as Conrart glanced to his brother, Gwendal didn't look as if he meant to intervene this time.

Irma Fieldler sobbed brokenly, and crawled wretchedly across the floor. In an act some might have considered brave and others stupid, she grasped at Yuuri's legs. She kissed his boots, sobbed into the white of his pants, and tilted her head to stare up at him like he was her only salvation.

"Y-Your Majesty..." she moaned miserably. "Your Majesty... please... [i]please[/i], I didn't want to. I didn't want to do it!"

Slowly, deliberately, Yuuri lowered himself until he rested on his knees on the stone. He took Irma by the shoulders and held her away from him so that he was able to look into her face.

"Why?" was all he said.

His voice was cold, emotionless, his anger suppressed for now.

"I-I... There was... there was a man," Irma began.

Gwendal shifted and released a derisive sniff. He'd either expected someone else to have been involved or thought the maid might be lying.

"In the guest wing... he summoned me there... he had gold, and... he said... he said if I didn't do it... he said my family would pay the price."

"Perhaps he was lying," Yuuri calmly suggested.

"No," Irma shook her head rapidly. "No, he knows of my two children. He knows my mother is ill!"

"What is his name?"

"I... He never told me... He only... he promised me the money and gave me the vial. He told me when to do it. He said no one would notice during the banquet."

"And you knew what it was this man gave you?"

"O-Only that it was p-poison... Your Majesty," Irma said. She dropped her head in shame, her body shaking with heavy sobs. "He told me nothing else."

"Do you recall anything about his appearance?" Yuuri said.

She shook her head again. "I never saw his face. He wore a cloak and the windows were boarded up. It was dark."

"Would you recognize his voice if you were to hear it again?" This question posed by the Great Sage.

He stood in the other corner, arms crossed over his chest. He appeared entirely at ease, as if he spent a great deal of time interrogating prisoners in the dungeon—particularly poor, weeping women.

"Oh... yes. [i]Yes[/i], Your Eminence! Yes, I remember his voice!"

She looked back to Yuuri, her eyes wide and beseeching.

"Please, Your Majesty, I had no choice."

Yuuri's eyes narrowed. "You had no choice?" he said.

Irma flinched back, but Yuuri's hands on her shoulders stopped her from going far.

"Have you no further information?" he asked.

"I..." Irma stuttered, suddenly fearful again. "He... the man... he wore... expensive jewels. Rings, Your Majesty. O-One of them bore a family crest."

Yuuri's dark eyes flared to life, his nostrils widening as he breathed, "What did it look like?"

"It... it looked like... it was some type of bird, Your Majesty. I-I didn't see it properly, but it was a bird with it's wings spread."

Conrart saw movement out of the corner of his eye and shifted his gaze over to rest on Gwendal. His brother stared back with a thin-lipped scowl. Wolfgang, on the other hand, appeared visibly shaken. His scarred face drained of color and his eyes grew hard.

"You are sure of this?" Admiral von Bielefeld said.

Irma nodded. She looked between them all again, searching for pity and compassion in at least one of their faces.

They showed her none.

"Bielefeld," Yuuri said.

"Conrart," Gwendal barked. "Arrest Lord Auberon von Bielefeld immediately."

Pushing himself away from the wall in his chosen corner, Conrart responded with a curt nod. He spun on his heel and made to follow Gwendal's orders.

That it could have been Auberon who was responsible did not surprise him. Auberon had made his abhorrence of Wolfram quite clear before Wolfram was even born. Even so, certain things failed to add up. Auberon may hate his nephew, and certainly he was among the faction that wished to remove Wolfram from power, but he had proven his loyalties to Wolfgang time and again. It seemed out of character, then, for him to have orchestrated this. He was not a clever man, but he was also not so foolhardy as to make an attempt on Wolfram's life.

"Wait."

The quiet calm of Yuuri's voice stopped him. Conrart turned to peer at Yuuri over his shoulder. Yuuri remained on the ground, his hands still placed upon Irma Fieldler's shoulders. She watched him with wet eyes, too in awe to look away.

"Yes, Your Majesty?" Conrart said.

Yuuri stood and brought Irma to her feet with him. He set her aside—gently, Conrart noticed—on the narrow cot that lined one wall. Then he turned and caught Conrart's eye, his gaze level and insistent.

"Arrest Admiral von Bielefeld and the Aristocrats," he said.

Wolfgang made no sound. The expression on his face looked resigned, defeated, as if he'd expected nothing less.

"Your Majesty," Conrart began, flicking his gaze from Wolfgang to Gwendal, "_All_ of the Aristocrats?"

"_Yes_, Lord Weller. _All _of them. I intend to have them questioned."

Gwendal had no visible reaction to the decree but to give Conrart a brief nod.

"Very well, Your Majesty," Conrart said.

Gwendal and Wolfgang left the cell of their own accord. They drifted down the hall, stood before a pair of empty cells, and waited for Conrart to have them opened. When they were both inside their respective prisons, the bars were shut and locked.

Down the hall, Conrart heard Yuuri speaking quietly with the maid.

"He is right to do this," were Gwendal's last words to him before he officially became a prisoner of the state. "I would have advised him no differently."

**TBC...**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I apologize for any awkwardness in my writing. I'm still getting used to writing lengthy chapters again. I will say now that this story will likely be much shorter than _Love and War _was. I don't think I have it in me to do another 30 chapters and 400,000+ words. XD Anyway, I would greatly appreciate any comments you may have! It's been a long while! I hope there's still interest in this! orz


	4. Chapter Four: Imprisonment

**Disclaimer: ** I do not own Kyou Kara Maou or any of its characters. All of the original characters were, however, created by me.

**Beta-ed by: **G, whose support through all these years will forever be appreciated.

**Warnings:** Language, violence, general dark/adult themse, angst, sexual content, sexual content of dubious consent, blood, torture, and OC!character death.

**Pairings:** Yuuri/Wolfram. Other side pairings will be mentioned, including Murata/Elizabeth and Lyron/Wolfram.

**Setting: **Seven years post Season 2. Three years after the events of Love and War. Yuuri is 23, Wolfram is 89 (17), and Greta is 18. As with Love and War, please ignore all OVAs as well as the entirety of Season 3.

**Rating: **M

**A/N: **Thank you so, so much for your wonderful reviews! It really means a lot to me! I wish I had the time to respond to each of you individually like I used to, but with so much going on I just haven't had the opportunity! So I hope another update makes up for it!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Between Kings<strong>_

by Mikage

**Chapter Four – _Imprisonment_**

All their lives Cecilie was forced to watch as her sons drifted away from her, one after the other.

Gwendal went to his duties early in life. He was seconds old and she knew she held a scholar in her arms. Gwendal was grim and studious, and Cecilie had nothing to offer him but her love and support. In her youth she was intelligent but not wise (that would come later), patient but not always attentive. She did not know how to be a mother and her oldest grew distant as a result. She lost him to books as soon as he could read; she lost him to the military as soon as he was old enough for war. Then she lost him to the Kingdom, and to the world beyond.

He was her first and, when his father died, Cecilie thought Gwendal would be her last. It did not sadden her in the least. He was a good boy—the perfect child. He never fussed, he followed directions, he was appropriately formal to his superiors. He did not always show her his love and affection, but Cecilie knew it was there.

"Are you well, Mother?" he would begin every morning.

He could not do so from prison.

Conrart went to his father, and later, when his father was gone, he went the way of bitterness. He was worse than Wolfram at Wolfram's age. Wolfram's arrogance was pride; Conrart's was all spite.. As a child Conrart would cling to her skirts, sit comfortably in her lap, and smile such a sweet, innocent smile she could not imagine him growing to become a hardened soldier. She wanted to keep him for herself. One child—that was all she wanted, just one child to keep safe while the other faced a cruel and dangerous world.

But Conrart grew older, and his smile grew rare over the years. He began to behave as one would expect of someone with "bad blood."

It was her fault. She'd known it then and she still believed it now. She'd not considered the ramifications of marrying Dunheely Weller; she'd not considered the sort of world she was bringing their child into. She'd paid for her mistakes during the war, forced to send her own son on a suicide mission, all so he could prove a loyalty to the crown that should never have been cast in doubt.

So Conrart went to war. He fought, and he won, and he returned quiet and solemn. Angry. Dejected. He awoke from his injuries into a world where one of the few people to accept him apart from his mother had died. Cecilie looked at him and saw his grief, and thought she would never see him smile again.

He could smile now. He could let go of his bitterness, for His Majesty had succeeded in doing what Cecilie had only dreamed of, and her poor, sweet second child drifted from her to the new King.

She wanted things to be different with Wolfram. He was born and she thought it must be fate. Finally, here was a child she could keep; here was one son who would always be safe. Born a Prince (and third at that) and not a soldier, she thought she could keep him from war. She coddled him, she spoiled him, she reveled in his grabby hands and his need to be close to her. Wolfram was not a shy child like Conrart. He was loud and boisterous, the type for games and play, the type to lead a pack of similarly aged children around in search of mischief.

Wolfram, of course, would not conform to her ideals simply because she wanted him to, and her efforts to mold him into a scholarly Prince who knew nothing of war ended in failure. He craved battle and ached to prove himself on the field. He idolized his older brothers, watched his father from afar and dreamed of one day surpassing him. He wanted no part in her silly parties, cared not for travel and adventure that didn't end in a victory for the Kingdom.

He was her darling baby, her spitting image, but he was also Gwendal and Conrart and Wolfgang all wrapped up into a single tiny person.

She'd lost him once, eight years ago when the boxes were opened. His heart stopped beating and it was as if hers stopped with it. She should have kept him behind, she should have listened to her instincts. She'd known then what the others hadn't, what Conrart and Gwendal had only suspected. She'd known Wolfram was a key.

Now, as he lay upon the wide bed in the royal bedchamber, pale beneath the covers and breathing shallowly, Cecilie feared she'd lost him again.

"The Aristocrats are now in custody. They are being detained in the dungeon with Gwendal, Wolfgang, and Irma Fieldler. Only Julius remains free," Conrart said.

"And where is Julius then?"

"He was to lead the escort to deliver supplies to Cimaron. His Majesty has dispatched a summons. He will be recalled and interrogated upon his return."

"Why has Wolfgang been detained?"

"You know why, Mother."

"He would never condone this!" Cecilie said. "Wolfram is his only son, his only living child! In Bastille—"

"I understand, Mother," Conrart's voice was calm and patient. "His Majesty understands that as well. But if Wolfgang were to escape suspicion without questioning when all evidence points to the Bielefelds, His Majesty would be accused of bias."

"This is not Auberon's doing."

She was as sure of that as she was of Wolfgang's innocence. Certainly she abhorred the man for the manner in which he treated her son, but he was no dispenser of poison. Regicide was not in his character, just as such subtle means were not his style.

"Wolfgang and Auberon are not the only Bielefelds," Conrart said. "Their being detained is as much for their protection as it is for Wolfram's."

Cecilie shook her head. Everything about this situation was wrong.

Gwendal in prison, Conrart arresting his own brother, Wolfram so pale and still he might as well have been dead. Her heart cried out for the three small babies they used to be. If only she could hold them one last time.

Conrart approached her. He was at her back and she could not see him, but she could feel him draw closer. His hands came to her shoulders. They rested there firmly and held her steady, sharing with her his unbroken strength.

She sat by Wolfram's bedside, holding one of his limp hands. She watched the blankets obsessively, noting every rise and fall to signify each quiet breath he took. His eyelids would flutter every so often, but he did not awaken. Even now tremors worked their way through his body as the poison lingered—no longer lethal, but still present in his system in traces.

There was no antidote for Dragon's Breath. They could only wait for it to subside.

"When will Gwen be released?" Cecilie asked.

Her voice had calmed. The hands upon her shoulders gave her comfort.

"Soon," Conrart said. "Once he, Wolfgang, and Gunter have been detained long enough to free His Majesty of any bias, they will be subjected to a brief interrogation and released."

"And Stoffel?"

Here Conrart paused. He squeezed her shoulders gently. "Stoffel will likely be detained longer, due to his previous crimes against the crown. How would it look if His Majesty were so quick to release a man who previously incited a civil war?"

"Stoffel only wanted the recognition that was due to him as Regent."

Her brother was no more involved than her third husband. Surely His Majesty knew that. Stoffel was boastful, arrogant, ambitious, but not cunning or clever. He was just a silly boy grown into a clumsy man. If he wanted power, it was only to compensate for his short-comings.

Cecilie caressed Wolfram's pale hand, then clasped it between hers and brought it to her lips to kiss his fingers. If she tried hard enough, she could almost see him again as a small child, tucked under his blankets with a cold. He would open his eyes and smile at her tiredly, hold his little arms out for her, and she could pull him close and sit him in her lap, rock him gently and sing him ancient lullabies.

Wolfram's eyelids fluttered, but he slept on.

"Are we to war again, Conrart?" she said.

Conrart gave her no answer.

* * *

><p>He awoke into a dream-world and saw nothing but shadows against a darker background, as black as a night without stars or moonlight.<p>

He thought he could hear voices, but they were muffled and came to him from afar. He could not recognize their tone, could not distinguish them from one another. They came together in a chorus of sorrow, and anger, and concern. He heard his name spoken, but knew not how to respond.

"Wolfram... Wolfram..." the voices said, over and over until the sound overwhelmed him.

If he could have, he would have covered his ears. As things were, he wasn't even sure he had hands in this dream. He felt heavy, too heavy to rise or move, and all he knew was pain.

It burned through him without remorse, set every inch of his would-be body aflame—from the crown of his head to what should be his smallest toe. It raged for hours, days, weeks, months, years. He had no concept of time, no memory of where the pain had come from. He only knew that it existed, a constant companion in this dark dream-scape.

He did not know if he was even alive.

Perhaps he'd met his end somehow. But by what means? He remembered countless battles, yet none of them should have concluded with his death.

He had too much to live for to allow himself to fall before his human enemies. His was a needed, necessary existence, whether Yuuri wanted to admit it or not. Yuuri needed his comfort and guidance. Yuuri needed _love_ amidst the duties that filled his days. They were to be married—perhaps not now, but soon. As soon as Yuuri realized, as soon as he could admit...

Oh...

_Oh_...

But there was one memory. It came to him now.

He'd lost his heart.

* * *

><p>"Picking up Dad's bad habits?"<p>

Yuuri startled at the sound of Shori's voice and froze with a lit cigarette halfway to his mouth.

He turned to spy his older brother standing in the doorway, a disapproving frown being directed toward him. Shori stepped out onto the balcony when Yuuri gave no indication that he wanted him to leave. Then they stood at the railing together, Shori leaning back with his elbows upon the stone, Yuuri leaning forward in a similar fashion. The cigarette completed the journey to his lips; he took a drag and released it on a breath that sounded like a sigh.

"Whatever happened to no drinking, no smoking?" Shori asked.

"That didn't last long when I finally admitted to myself that I was never going to go pro," Yuuri said. "Besides, you can blame Dad. He gave me my first."

Yuuri dug into his pocket for a half-empty packet of cigarettes and offered it to Shori. His brother scoffed, disgusted, and forced the pack away.

"Suit yourself," Yuuri said. He shrugged with a nonchalance he didn't quite feel.

The weather was cooling. Soon autumn would be upon them, and with it his fourth wedding anniversary. Any plans he might have had for that were completely shot now, as Wolfram had yet to awaken and may not for quite some time.

It had already been three days.

Gisela cautioned patience. It was a powerful poison Wolfram ingested, and in such a large dose it would take time to flush from his system entirely. She told him it was probably best that Wolfram sleep through it. Awake, he would be in constant pain, as the poison set his nerves on fire and ravaged his body.

Yuuri only wanted to see Wolfram open his eyes once. Just once. Maybe hear his voice, a tired "Yuuri" or "You wimp." Then Wolfram could sleep again and Yuuri could regain his patience. He only wanted to know for sure that Wolfram was alive; Yuuri wanted to know without a shadow of a doubt that he hadn't lost him. Wolfram had a long road ahead of him regardless of which side-effects remained. All Yuuri wanted to know was how long that road would be.

What would he do if Wolfram forgot who he was? What would he do if Wolfram couldn't even speak? If Wolfram ended up blind, how was Yuuri supposed to help him recover from the loss? If Wolfram could not even walk, how was Yuuri supposed to help him regain his pride?

"Mom and Dad are worried about you, you know," Shori said.

Yuuri snorted and took a final drag from his cigarette. "Why's that?"

"You gave them one hellava scare with that little transformation of yours."

"They've seen it before."

"Not like that," Shori said. "That was something else. They're used to random explosions and a lot of blustering bravado. This time you were eerily restrained."

"I had a lot on my mind."

"You sure you weren't just trying to escape?"

It was a thought that crossed his mind many times over the last three days. A number of his councilors certainly believed it. Gunter looked at him with sadness and pity in his eyes between the bars of a dungeon cell. Conrad grew cautious around him now, steered the conversation away from painful subjects, clasped Yuuri's shoulder like he could syphon off some of Yuuri's pain and bear it himself.

Now Shouri was accusing him of the very same thing, which likely meant his parents assumed it was an escape as well. They weren't entirely wrong to think so. He'd used it as an escape before. It was easier to let his consciousness slip away than to deal with the hard issues. If Wolfram died, Yuuri wouldn't have been able to face it.

It was a precaution, not an escape. He needed to keep it together the best he could. Relying on the Demon King was simply the only way he knew how.

"I had to stay focused," Yuuri said.

He crushed out the cigarette butt on the railing, and carelessly flicked it over the edge to watch it descend to the castle grounds far below them.

Yuuri felt a brief pang of guilt for littering, but he forced it aside. What difference did it make now?

"I would have been a mess if I hadn't," he continued. "Maybe I didn't seem calm, but that was as calm as I was going to get under the circumstances."

"He's going to be fine, Yuu-chan," Shori said.

"Is he? We don't know that yet. He could wake up next week and think he's thirty years old."

"What happened to your fearless optimism?"

"It died with Ilyich," Yuuri said.

"Who the hell is Ilyich?"

Shori looked at him, confused. Yuuri stared back levelly. He tried to convey the meaning in his gaze, but Shori either didn't get it or wanted it confirmed verbally.

Yuuri sighed and turned back to the railing. He leaned heavily against his elbows and dropped his head into his hands.

"I killed a man," he said.

"_What_?"

"I said I killed a man, Shori."

"I heard that," Shori said, "but I don't... what? How? When? _Why_?"

"You forgot the 'where'?" Yuuri offered.

The silence Shori met him with was deafening. Yuuri could feel his brother's stare as if Shori's eyes were boring holes into his soul. He scrubbed his hands over his hair, grumbled unintelligibly, suddenly tense and frustrated. The memories surfaced, and Wolfram wasn't there to shoo them away.

"During the war," he explained, "I went to the front lines."

"You _what_?!"

"I helped Gisela at the medical station. I... I needed to go. I needed to experience it. If my people were going to go off to war, I wasn't going to let them fight for a king who didn't even know what war was really like."

Shori pushed himself from the railing aggressively. He shook out his shoulders and began a round of relentless pacing across the balcony.

"And I thought I took it bad," Yuuri observed.

"What the hell are you even saying?!" Shori said.

"I'm saying I killed someone. That someone was a soldier from Isidore. His name was Ilyich. He came into my Kingdom when the boxes were opened and spied on us for three years, before he and his accomplice attacked Wolfram and Greta in my own bedroom while I was on Earth."

"Attacked how?!"

"They were going to rape Wolfram and make Greta watch," Yuuri said. He was surprised by how emotionless his voice sounded when the anger still burned hot in his chest.

It was the first time he'd said it out loud. Saying it made it real, reminded him how easily things could have ended that way. Neither Greta nor Wolfram ever spoke of it. Yuuri felt too much pity and sadness (and horror) for his daughter to force her to relive the experience by asking, and the few times he'd tried to get Wolfram to talk about it Wolfram would change the subject or clam up and refuse to speak.

But sometimes, late at night, Wolfram would mumble in his sleep, whimper and twist about like he was fighting off an attacker. Sometimes he would jerk up with a shout so loud and enraged he woke Yuuri from a deep sleep. Sometimes, during sex, Yuuri could see the memories in Wolfram's eyes. He knew Wolfram could still hear that man's voice, could still see his face and remember what it felt like to have Ilyich force him down.

Yuuri swallowed. His dropped his hands to the balcony railing. They shook noticeably.

"Ilyich escaped from prison and killed his accomplice. So when Isidore's soldiers attacked a village near the medical station and I saw Ilyich there, I went after him."

"Okay, Yuuri, stop, you don't have to tell me anymore."

He didn't stop. He couldn't. Now that he was finally opening up about it to his brother, he couldn't stop until he got it all out there.

Shori should know what sort of person his little brother had become.

"He killed Merry's mother right there, just like that, like she didn't even matter. I just... I lost it. I wanted him gone. I wanted him to pay for what he'd done to Wolfram and Greta. I wanted him to pay for what his soldiers were doing to my people. We fought, I stabbed him, he died. I regretted it back then."

Slowly Yuuri straightened, turned to face his brother and said numbly, "I don't regret it anymore."

Shori looked horrified. It was impossible to determine whether he was more appalled by what Yuuri had done or because of what Yuuri had to go through. Yuuri assumed it was a bit of both. His older brother looked at him and saw him as little Yuu-chan, and couldn't reconcile that image with what Yuuri was telling him.

"Wolfram said it made me a better man. That I could regret it," he said. "What kind of man does that make me now?"

"Yuuri..." Shori breathed.

"Do me a favor? Don't tell Mom and Dad. They don't need to hear any of that."

"Why are you telling me?"

Yuuri shrugged again. He pulled another hand through his hair, took a deep breath and released it like it could help release him from the shame. Then Yuuri dug around in his pocket to pull out his pack of cigarettes again. He drew one out and lit it with magic.

"You wanted to know what happened to my optimism."

"Come on, Yuu-chan, seriously."

That Shori could still use the term of endearment brought a laugh from Yuuri's throat.

"I guess I wanted you to understand the situation. It's easier to handle things like that when I transform. I can pretend it wasn't me."

"Then it _is _an escape."

"Maybe. Or maybe it's an excuse."

Shori said nothing else. Yuuri didn't think there was much left to say in the first place. His brother would need time to process it. Yuuri didn't even think _he'd _fully processed it and it'd been four years. But he didn't feel guilt anymore, just shame, and he wasn't sure if the shame was for what he'd done or for his lack of remorse.

They stood like that for some time—Shori struggling to find something to say, Yuuri smoking his cigarette and thinking about how complicated life had become in such a short time.

He never would have smoked at fifteen. Of course, he never would have killed anyone either. Back then, things like rape and death and war were things that happened to other people. He didn't like that they happened, he didn't like that such things existed, but as he wasn't face-to-face with them he didn't have to consider what he would do if either ever took place. He could feel pity and sympathy for others, support them in their time of need, and avoid the consequences because it hadn't happened to him.

There were two directions his life could have taken, Yuuri realized. He could have remained ignorant, kept his innocence and believed in the inherent good in people, ignoring or overlooking the bad so long as he was faced with a happy ending. Maybe then he wouldn't be so numb now. He wouldn't have known what it felt like to be truly angry; he wouldn't have known what it was like to have his sword impaled in someone's else's body; he wouldn't have known the horror and fear he now faced, because other people would be facing it for him.

But he'd gone down the second path, the path that took him to the darkness in the living soul. He chose to face rape, and war, and death head on, and he lost a large portion of his innocence in the process. He learned of bitterness and grief, he learned of loss and sorrow, and the silly, wide-eyed, naïve boy he used to be was gone.

Yuuri stared at the last burning embers of his cigarette and wondered where exactly it was the path had split. When had he chosen which road to take? The night he killed Ilyich? Before that? Was it the moment he'd chosen to go to war and face the horrors of the battlefield, or years ago when he'd decided he wasn't going to be a complacent King who sat in his castle and let his councilors handle his business for him?

He put out his cigarette on the balcony railing and flicked the remnants over the side like his first. It fell away like his childhood, never to be seen again.

When he turned to leave the balcony, Yuuri saw Shori staring at him as if he'd never quite seen him before. Shori's expression was not entirely appalled, though there remained a moderate amount of unease. For the most part he seemed amazed, like he was seeing Yuuri for the man he'd become and not the child he used to be for the first time.

If Shori approved of what he saw, Yuuri wouldn't know it then. He pushed himself away from the railing to make his way back inside.

"Come on," he said. "We've got interrogations to do."

"We?" Shori said. His voice choked off in surprise.

"Yeah, _we_. With Gwendal and Gunter stuck in the dungeon, I need another wingman."

"You have Murata, Conrad, and GeigenHuber. And that ginger haired guy with the dresses."

"I do," Yuuri agreed with a patient nod. "But three double-blacks make more of an impact than two."

He forced a smile. It wasn't a joke, but it sounded like one. Yuuri was pleased to know his voice could still function properly and express amusement.

"Besides, if you're not going to go back to ruling your own Kingdom, you could at least help me with mine," he added.

Shori snorted, and it was as if the two of them were sharing a private joke.

Like they used to when they were young. It was a good sign.

"A planet," Shori corrected him. "I rule a planet."

Needless to say, Shori followed.

* * *

><p>The messenger came with the royal summons just as they neared her border.<p>

Julius planned the operation carefully. Confident as he was that he would succeed, he nevertheless enacted a few precautions. The plan would not take effect until he was clear of the castle. In the event that it failed he would not be within reach, and Elise would have what she needed to fend for herself. The King would not harm her, he was sure, for she was innocent. If she lost her place at court because of his crimes, it would be a small price to pay for vengeance; if banished to the Mannheim estate, she would be safe there.

The maid could not be entirely depended upon to keep her silence, fearful though she was for her family. She would not be compensated for her troubles, whatever he'd promised her in the guest wing. She was but a scapegoat, a pawn in his game of revenge.

"Your Excellency," the messenger was escorted into his tent. They'd set up camp just miles from the border with Cimaron.

"An urgent message from His Majesty."

"Give it here," Julius instructed. He did not look at the messenger, but perused a stack of paperwork and held out his hand for the missive as if unconcerned by his arrival.

The messenger placed folded parchment into his hand, sealed with red wax stamped with the royal insignia. Julius held it over the flame of a candle long enough to soften the wax, and opened it without looking at it. He paused for a long moment. Within the large tent, there was only silence; outside the canvas walls, the sound of soldiers enjoying their dinner.

A minute passed. Two. The messenger shifted uncomfortably, cleared his throat like he meant to catch Julius's attention.

Finally, Julius set aside his paperwork, adjusted his weight in his seat, leaning into the back of a rough wooden chair as he unfolded the parchment to read its contents.

"_To His Excellency, Lord Julius von Mannheim,_

_You are hereby ordered to return in haste to Blood Pledge Castle by His Majesty King Yuuri. The escort to Cimaron will henceforth be led and commanded by Lieutenant Dietrich Bauer._

_Awaiting your return,_

_Murata Ken."_

The Great Sage. So the King had not seen fit to send the summons personally.

Suitably intrigued, Julius made to read the message a second time as he said, "What has happened?"

The messenger shifted on his feet again. Julius could have sworn he heard the man swallow audibly.

"His Majesty Prince Wolfram has been poisoned, My Lord."

Julius paused and waited for further news, but nothing was forthcoming and he could learn little else from the summons. He frowned, drummed his fingers against the scarred, war-beaten table that had seen many a battlefield.

"Will he recover?" he asked, the wording more appropriate than asking if the Prince had died.

If it was treason to foretell the King's death, it was equally so to suggest that of King Yuuri's consort, beloved as he was. Wrongly so, Julius thought, but all the same.

"It seems so, My Lord."

How? He'd come by a lethal dose of Dragon's Breath, the effects of which should have been quick. Prince Wolfram should have breathed his last breath at that banquet before dinner even ended, before he'd even so much as touched his food.

Prince Wolfram should be dead, Wolfgang should be suffering as Julius had suffered, and Julius should be free from suspicion, hundreds of miles away.

Had he been betrayed? The summons gave no indication that he was a suspect, but with his plans falling apart as they were Julius had no choice but to assume the worst. Who would have revealed him to the King? The maid knew not his name nor his face, nor how to find him should she desire. Winifred, Griselda, Marlena, and Auberon knew to feign ignorance. And indeed they _were_ ignorant, for they had not known his method to be poison. Naturally, Elise would keep her silence, devise some means to prove his innocence.

Who, then? And _why_? The Kingdom would only prosper with Prince Wolfram's demise. The treasury would be saved from exhaustion, his comrades would regain their unquestioned authority. The King would grieve for a time, but he would move on as all men do when young love dies.

"Thanks be to the Great One," Julius said, playing his part accordingly. "I will depart immediately. Wait here and I will draft a return letter to His Majesty. You will take it ahead."

"Yes, My Lord."

Julius stood from his chair in a single fluid motion. He left the summons upon the table, crossed to a small writing desk where more paperwork sat waiting. From beneath a stack of unopened letters, Julius retrieved a letter opener in the form of a small sword, with rubies inlaid in the delicate hilt.

He knew what he must do.

He would not be returning to Blood Pledge Castle.

Julius was upon the messenger before the man was any the wiser. He curled a hand around the man's face from behind, held him steady, and opened his throat with the small blade. The messengers body jerked, blood sprayed from the wound, but he had no time to scream.

His victim fell to the floor in a pool of his own blood, body twitching as his eyes grew vacant. The table and chair had not be spared from the carnage, each dappled with blood. The summons lay open, stained red in places, soaking in a small puddle upon the table.

There was no sound but those made by the soldiers around the fire outside.

"Edmund!" Julius called.

Moments later, Julius's second-in-command, Lord Edmund Eckhart, entered the tent. He glanced at the body at his feet but gave no indication that the sight disturbed him. Rather, he looked to Julius and awaited his orders.

"Dispose of this," Julius said. He motioned to the body as if it were little more than a sack of garbage. "We will be departing momentarily. Send the rest ahead to Cimaron. They will be led by Lieutenant Bauer."

Julius threw the letter opener onto the table and retrieved the summons. He touched a spot of blood with his thumb and thought of the King, burdened by an incompetent Consort and led astray by his councilors. They could never hope to lead His Majesty to the glory he should rightly claim.

"Will we not join the rest in Cimaron, Your Excellency?" Edmund said.

Julius smirked, chuckled quietly, and held the summons over the candle-flame.

"Not quite."

* * *

><p>"Wolfram... Wolfram..."<p>

The voices grew louder.

He could recognize them now, but they remained distant. There was his mother, weeping, no doubt, over his prone form. And Greta. She was there too, but her voice sounded strange, not young and sweet as he remembered. Perhaps there was a simple explanation for it. She was overcome by grief; she wept beside his mother, harsh sobs that tore through her throat and roughened her voice.

He heard Elizabeth, too, and for a moment he thought he felt her hand by his face. It carded through his hair, brushed his bangs from his forehead, patted his cheek like she meant to emulate the slap he'd bestowed upon her accidentally, long ago when they were children.

The pain was never-ending. It dragged him down, down, down into the darkness of non-memory.

"Mama... Wo-fu Mama..."

Whose voice was that? A child?

Confusion joined the pain. Suddenly overcome by the sense that something wasn't quite right, he tried to lift his body. If he could prop himself onto his elbows, if he could rise and sit, perhaps he would be able to find his body and break through the darkness.

But that made no sense. He needed a body to move.

_Calm_, he told himself. _Be calm and _think.

If he could feel pain, logic dictated that he must still have a body. If he still had a body and retained some sort of consciousness, that must mean his soul had not yet left. He was not dead, but he was not wholly alive, stuck in this dream-world with no visible way out.

How had he ended up here? Perhaps it was not his heart, after all. He remembered that, the moment it was taken, though he'd seen it through hazy eyes. He didn't remember anything after, only nothingness. No pain, no sense of touch, no voices, just silence and darkness.

"Wolfram... Wolfram..."

He knew that voice, knew it as surely as he knew his own, though it was not so light and carefree as he thought it should be.

_Open_, he told his mouth. _Speak._

It was an effort, but he heard his tired voice whisper, "Yuu... ri..."

* * *

><p>The dungeons were dark and stuffy.<p>

Yuuri always imaged they would be cold; they were, when the temperatures plummeted outside. They reflected the seasons—hot on the hottest days, and chilly on the colder ones. Yet there was always a heavy staleness in the air, of musk and unwashed skin, the scent of shit, piss, and old blood.

When he'd come to release Greta from her prison, he'd gagged. He'd nearly cried for the poor child confined there, whether or not she was concerned for herself. He made a point of keeping the dungeons empty after that. Those who'd committed petty crimes were released; those responsible for the more heinous ones were handled by Gwendal while Yuuri was on Earth.

Once he'd been ignorant of it. Now, he was sure he knew what happened to them.

"Where were you the evening Prince Wolfram was poisoned?" Murata said.

The interrogation room was a dark, dank cell with thick stone walls and a heavy wooden door. A single table with two chairs on either side took up the most space, beneath a small, barred window set high in the wall. If there had been no clouds to cover its face, they might have seen the moon.

Ilyich was in here before, Yuuri remembered. It was not the first time Yuuri had conducted an interrogation himself, and it would not be the last, but it was certainly the most memorable. Before, his methods had been innocent, not ignorant of the ways of the world, but defiant of them. He'd treated his prisoners with dignity and respect because he thought it was what all living beings deserved. It would be what made his country great, he told himself.

With Ilyich he'd finally realized that kindness and sympathy were not for everyone. Ilyich struck a low blow, and Yuuri responded accordingly. He let himself be fueled by anger; he resorted to threats, and was surprised that he actually intended to carry through with them if provoked. Before, he hadn't known he had it in him.

Yuuri sat in one of the chairs at the table, Murata standing beside him. Conrad sat in an extra chair at the end of the table, rolls of parchment unfurled before him as he took notes. Gegenhuber and Yozak guarded the door from the inside, watching each subsequent exchange with increasing interest. Shori stood in one corner, his arms crossed as he looked on with a growing sense of unease.

"Have Lords von Voltaire and von Christ been released?"

Their prisoner sat in the chair across from Yuuri, stiff backed and tight-lipped. Winifred von Yale took poorly to prison, being an old woman in such rough confines. Her hair was unwashed; strands of it constantly escaped their once tight bindings. Her clothing was wrinkled, her jewelry losing its luster. She looked pale and tired, with small, beady, blood-shot eyes, as if she'd not slept in days.

She should have. There were cots in the dungeon. Yuuri made sure each cell had one.

Perhaps she'd not wanted to in some foolish attempt at rebellion.

"The fate of Lords von Voltaire and von Christ is none of your concern," Murata said.

"And Captain von Bielefeld?"

"_Admiral_," Yuuri corrected her.

"I did not see them when the guards saw fit to drag me to this room," Winifred sniffed imperiously.

"If you were dragged," Yuuri said, "it was only after you began to resist."

Winifred speared him with a cold glare, which Yuuri met with such an impassive expression he imagined Gwendal, had he been there, would have been proud.

"Where were you the evening Prince Wolfram was poisoned?" Murata said again.

"We've been over this," Winifred insisted. "_Many_ times. My answer remains the same. I was at the banquet held in honor of Your Eminence's marriage to Her Grace the Lady Elizabeth."

"Where were you before that?"

"My presence was required at the Great One's Temple, to witness the aforementioned nuptials."

"Before that?"

"Oh, for goodness sake!" Winifred snapped. She seethed at them both and struggled against the chains that kept her arms fastened to the arms of the chair. "I know not who poisoned Prince Wolfram, but it was not I! When will you cease these pointless interrogations and begin your search for a more legitimate culprit?!"

"The court knows you and Wolfram are enemies," Yuuri said.

"And I have no more poisoned him than he has poisoned me! I assure you, I have more dignity than that, Your Majesty. Prince Wolfram is a disgrace to the name of our great Kingdom, but he is also not worth the time and effort it would take me to concoct such a plan! I beg you to cast your eyes on younger foes!"

Yuuri sighed and exchanged a look with Murata, who waved a hand for Yozak and GegenHuber to come forward and release Winifred from the chair.

"Return her to her cell," Murata said, "until such a time as she deems it appropriate to offer her cooperation."

"You will live to regret this!" Winifred shrieked on her way out of the interrogation room. She twisted in the hold Yozak and GegenHuber had on her, struggling to release her arms from their hands. "This is unlawful imprisonment and your people will know it!"

Neither Yuuri nor Murata said anything in response. Yuuri refused to even look at her as she was taken around the table and pulled from the room. Murata simply glanced over his shoulder and said, "Bring Lord von Bielefeld when you return."

The room grew quiet when Winifred was removed. Her shouts could still be heard as she was taken down the hall, her voice echoing off of the stones, but it drifted further and further away until it no longer reached their ears. Then all Yuuri heard was a constant _drip-drip-drip_ of an as yet undetermined leak.

He sighed heavily and allowed himself to relax during the lull. He'd lost count of how many interrogations they'd been through in the last week. They all streamed together at this point; they were all roughly the same. Either they cooperated and were released, like Gwendal, Gunter, Wolfgang, Densham, and Odell, or they made a play at defiance like Winifred. Griselda and Marlena remained in their cells, each refusing to speak. Stoffel sat in misery, no more guilty than Gwendal or Gunter, but kept away for a time sufficient for a former criminal to be believably absolved of any wrong doing.

Shori shifted in the corner. Yuuri cast a brief look over his shoulder and met his brother's eye. Shori was clearly not comfortable with the proceedings. Of course he wouldn't be; he had no use for such things on Earth. Shori was fortunate to oversee a world where the Humans and Demons were largely at peace. He had no reason to fear poison, nor any reason to go to war, for what wars took place on Earth were between individual countries. None were fought against him.

"You can leave if you want," Yuuri told him.

His brother shook his head, his expression resolute.

Yozak and GegenHuber returned with Auberon between them. Shori shut the door to the chamber while Yozak and Hube brought Auberon to the chair and fastened his shackles to the arms.

Auberon looked no different than Winifred. His hair was unwashed and looked unkept, his clothes obviously worn for a number of days. He'd removed his jacket and accoutrements some time after being placed in his cell, leaving him in nothing more than his shirt, shoes, and trousers.

"Lord Auberon von Bielefeld," Murata began. "Where were you the evening Prince Wolfram was poisoned?"

"I attended the banquet held in Your Eminence's honor," Auberon said.

"Where were you before that?"

Auberon grit his teeth and shot a glare up at Murata.

"Is this necessary?" he said. "Surely Your Eminence remembers I attended your wedding ceremony."

"Before," Yuuri began, "the night of my birthday party, you spoke to me about Wolfram."

"I did," Auberon agreed.

"Would you care to revisit that conversation?"

"Which part, Your Majesty?"

"The rumors. The ones you said were going around court. You said, 'the court is not as happy a place as it appears.'"

"Yes, Your Majesty, I did" Auberon said.

"Would you care to elaborate on that?" Murata said.

"Surely you are aware that there are many people who remain displeased with Prince Wolfram."

"Enough to poison him?"

"Some, yes, Your Eminence."

"Then you know who it was," Yuuri said.

"Those were not my words, Your Majesty."

"But there's someone you suspect."

Auberon fell silent. He met Yuuri and Murata with an obstinate glare. Yuuri was prepared for the use of threats. If Auberon knew something, and Yuuri was fairly certain he did, they were going to get the information out of him one way or the other.

At the end of the able, Conrad stopped dictating the interrogation. He looked up expectantly, waiting for Auberon to continue. Shori shifted in the corner again, perhaps having second thoughts about his decision to stay. Yozak looked no less bored than usual, though there was a spark in his eye that only seemed to be there when he was on a mission. GegenHuber looked merciless and vengeful on Gwendal's behalf. Out of them all, Yuuri suspected Hube would be the first to suggest torture.

It was not an appealing thought—and against the law, at that. As a nobleman, and especially as an Aristocrat, the law protected Auberon from such practices. Yet, to find the culprit, Yuuri could not pretend he couldn't be swayed by a carefully crafted argument.

And that disgusted him. He felt sick to his stomach, wished he could go back and redo everything from the year of the boxes on.

Auberon adjusted his position in his chair. The chains around his arms clinked against the wood. He stared down at them and seemed to fall into deep thought. Yuuri watched the expressions that flitted across his face, from irritation to anger, and from anger to fatigue. From there, it made a shift toward complacency.

"Julius," he said.

Yuuri gave a start. By the door, GegenHuber made a move as if he intended to leave that very moment and apprehend the man in question. Conrad's expression was carefully blank, but by the way his hand tightened around his quill, Yuuri knew that he was furious.

"What?" Yuuri said. The announcement left him bewildered.

"You heard me," Auberon scoffed. "I said it was Julius."

"But... how do you know?"

"He requested my presence in the guest wing, with Ladies von Yale, von Hassel, and von Grantz. He spoke of a plan to strip Prince Wolfram from power. I did not know he meant poison. He would not reveal his methods."

"And you... you didn't think to tell me... until _now_?"

Auberon was silent once again, perhaps aware that he had not tread as lightly as he should have.

Julius. _Julius_. He'd not suspected Julius. Julius was one of his most well-respected Generals. He and Gwendal were revered for their military prowess and staunch leadership during the war with Cimaron. Julius, along with Adalbert, had defended their borders against Cimaron and Isidore's Black Knights. Julius was agreeable, open to compromise. Julius was _loyal _to him. He was not argumentative like Auberon, or irascible like Winifred. He was the only moderate on a council split nearly in half.

Why. _Why_ would Julius do this? He'd never given any indication that he meant to cause Wolfram harm. Yuuri had always suspected Julius held no fondness towards Wolfram, but he'd thought him able to overlook his disapproval for the sake of the Kingdom. Wolfram never showed himself to be a threat toward Julius the way he was with the more conservative Aristocrats. Julius had no reason, nothing to hold against-

And then it hit him. It was not a sudden strike of inspiration like a lightning bolt going off in his head; it built slowly like the ocean waves, bringing forth memories from the depths of his mind.

Julius's son died in Bastille. Julius's son was murdered by Wolfgang von Bielefeld. Julius never forgave Wolfgang, and while Julius may have nothing personally against Wolfram, he certainly had enough to hold against his family.

But this?

Poison?

_Treason_?

Was Julius's desire for revenge so strong that he would betray Yuuri in the process?

"The maid..." he tried, well aware that he was likely grasping at straws. "She saw a ring. There was a family crest on it. An eagle..."

"As you know, my niece was married to Lord von Mannheim's son," Auberon said. "Her signet ring was never recovered after her death."

Yuuri's blood ran cold the same time hot anger erupted in his chest.

It made sense now. It all made sense. And he'd been stupid enough to believe. After everything, after all he'd been through, he was still so _blind. _He couldn't spot treachery until it was staring him in the face. First a spy in their midst; now treason from one of their own. Was he still so naïve? Was he still so hopeful that he refused to see until he could no longer avoid it?

Had his weakness led to Wolfram's poisoning? If he'd been a stronger King, a wiser King, could he have prevented it?

Slowly, Yuuri's consciousness slipped back, sliding toward darkness. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see a faint blue light shimmer around the outline of his body. Across from him, Auberon's eyes grew wide.

Yuuri was dimly aware of standing from his chair and turning to Yozak and GegenHuber.

"Bring him to me," he said.

* * *

><p>The dark dream-world lingered, and he floated there as if stuck in an eternity of misery. The voices came and went, along with with sporadic touches. Once he was aware of warm liquid sliding down his throat. It tasted of tea and broth.<p>

The pain faded. It had not yet left completely, but it grew tolerable as the burning sensation diminished to a mild ache. He could handle it. He'd experienced worse in his life.

But the darkness disturbed him. He moved to reach out, to turn on a light, but his hand met nothing but air. He did not even know if he'd managed to move his arm properly. His twitched his toes and thought he felt something covering them. A blanket, perhaps? Was he in a bed? It was difficult to tell with his mind so numb and his eyes closed.

_Wake up_, he told himself. _Wake up_!

He awoke with a gasp, choking on air as his heart pounded away in his chest. He moved his fingers and gripped the covers with his hands, shifted his legs and felt how fatigued they were, as if they'd not been used in some time. A strand of hair tickled the side of his face by his ear; he shook his head to be rid of it and felt the softness of a pillow give beneath him. The clothing he wore draped loosely around him. One of his nightgowns?

Two broad hands came upon his shoulders, pushing him back as he attempted to sit. A voice shushed him, low and quiet.

"Shhh, Wolfram."

"_Good morning, Prince Wolfram_."

"No," Wolfram said. His voice sounded rough to his own ears. "No no no."

He struggled, flinched away from the hands and brought his fists up to force them off, but they held tight.

"Shhh, it's okay, Wolfram. It's okay, it's just me."

"_If you give me any trouble, I'll cut her pretty head off_."

"Stop! No no no, stop, _stop_!"

"Wolfram! _Wolfram_, it's Yuuri!"

"Yuuri?"

He stopped struggling. His breathing came in ragged gasps. His throat felt dry, unused. His hands shook against a warm, solid chest.

"Yuuri?"

"Yes... yes, Wolfram, it's me. It's okay. You've been out for twelve days."

"What?"

What did he mean? He'd only been sleeping. He remembered the dream-world, the voices, the phantom pain...

Only it hadn't been a phantom, had it? He could feel the remnants, just there, just enough to prick his senses. His hands trembled uncontrollably, not from fear, but by some compulsion he had no power over. He felt weak and dazed. His stomach hurt. He felt sick and heavy.

Bedridden. He'd been bedridden.

"Don't you remember?" Yuuri said. His voice was soft. His hands released Wolfram's shoulders to take Wolfram's face between his palms. "You were poisoned."

"Poison?"

Yes, that's right. They'd been dancing. It was... a banquet of some sort. His Eminence and Elizabeth sat at the high table. Yuuri wore black, white, and purple. His formal crown sat heavily on his head. Wolfram wore a delicate coronet from the castle treasure vault. Greta... she'd been in purple, too. And Elizabeth...

She'd been beautiful.

The wedding. There'd be a wedding. He remembered the rings. He remembered the longing feeling in his chest as Elizabeth said her vows.

"Poison..." he said again.

It came suddenly, the poison did. One moment he felt fine, and the next he'd been on the floor in Yuuri's arms. He'd known then what was happening. There was no doubt in his mind; it was the only explanation. But who? And why?

"It's okay," Yuuri said. He shushed Wolfram softly.

Wolfram felt a kiss placed along his brow.

"It's okay, Wolfram. You're going to be okay now."

"Yuuri..."

Wolfram wanted to see him. He wanted to open his eyes, finally escape that dark dream-world and leave the shadows behind. He wanted to see Yuuri's face, to look into his eyes and feel relief.

But nothing happened. The darkness and the shadows remained.

"Yuuri... why can't I open my eyes?"

Yuuri sucked in a breath. Seconds ticked by in silence. Wolfram shivered. He expected he knew the answer before Yuuri said anything.

"Wolfram..." Yuuri's voice sounded broken. "They're already open."

**TBC...**


	5. Chapter Five: Treason

**Disclaimer: ** I do not own Kyou Kara Maou or any of its characters. All of the original characters were, however, created by me.

**Beta-ed by: **G, whose support through all these years will forever be appreciated.

**Warnings:** Language, violence, general dark/adult themse, angst, sexual content, sexual content of dubious consent, blood, torture, and OC!character death.

**Pairings:** Yuuri/Wolfram. Other side pairings will be mentioned, including Murata/Elizabeth and Lyron/Wolfram.

**Setting: **Seven years post Season 2. Three years after the events of _Love and War_. Yuuri is 23, Wolfram is 89 (17), and Greta is 18. As with _Love and War_, please ignore all OVAs as well as the entirety of Season 3.

**Rating: **M

**A/N: **Once again I can't thank you enough for the reviews you guys have left for me! It's such a huge honor to know that people read and enjoy my fics! With the holidays coming up and things slowing down a bit, I hope to be able to respond personally this time like I used to!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Between Kings<strong>_

by Mikage

**Chapter Five – _Treason_**

A pounding on her bedchamber door roused her from sleep.

She came awake at once. As the daughter of a General, she had a soldier's instincts. Beneath her pillow her hand grasped the hilt of a dagger, drawing it forth and rising from the bed just as the bedchamber door burst open.

A pair of palace guards entered the room, pikes at the ready. She looked between them, assessing the odds, tightening her grip on the dagger and brandishing it before her defensively. One guard's gaze narrowed on the weapon; she met the man's suspicions challengingly.

"Lady Elise von Mannheim," a voice came from the doorway. Into the bedchamber strode His Eminence the Great Sage.

His Eminence was a tall man, but not broad; pleasing in appearance, but not traditionally handsome. His eyes were as dark as the King's, yet not as wide, and they were shielded by glasses. His Eminence wore his hair longer; it brushed his neck in the back and reached his chin in the front. She'd never seen him wear anything but the same black uniform. He wore it now, so late at night, the jacket with its high collar trimmed in gold, and long trousers that led to a pair of Earthen shoes.

Often gregarious and jovial, His Eminence nevertheless had it in him to be deceptive and coldly calculating. He met her with an enigmatic little smile, neither impressed nor put off by her show of defiance. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, expectant.

"You are hereby under arrest by order of His Majesty the King," he said evenly.

"On what charges?"

"Treason."

It had all fallen apart, just as she'd suspected it would. Prince Wolfram lived, her father's accomplices had most likely betrayed him, and he would be apprehended, put to trial, and...

Elise did not know what would happen to him then. His Majesty was not the sort to condone executions, yet she expected many of his councilors would suggest such a severe course of action in this instance. Her father would die and she would have no one; she would be imprisoned or banished, forced into exile for the remainder of her long life.

It was not a fate she wanted for herself.

"I am no traitor," she said.

"You will have your chance to prove yourself, I assure you," the Great Sage said, "but you must lower your weapon and come with me."

Elise took a moment to consider her options. She could fight and make a run for it. The castle guards were not as well trained as she had been, and there were only two of them. She was sure she could dispose of them easily enough. His Eminence, on the other hand, was not a man to be trifled with. Elise knew not the extent of his powers, having never seen them herself, but she knew him to be only second to His Majesty in strength.

Her only other choice was to surrender, to take her chances with the King and play to his merciful nature. She was but one lone woman with no family to support her and no means to provide for herself if her father was truly under suspicion. They would seize the Mannheim assets, rip their grand estate apart for evidence, strip them of their titles and replace their once proud family with another. Surely His Majesty would feel pity for her if she showed herself to be humble and cooperative.

His Eminence was not the only one who could be cunning.

She lowered the dagger, set it aside on the bedside table and held up her hands in surrender. The guards approached her; one seized her arms to keep her still while the other locked rough shackles around her wrists. The chain hung heavy between her hands, clinking loudly as she was led from the room.

Courtiers lingered in the hallway and watched curiously as Elise was escorted away. They whispered between one another and eyed her suspiciously, but she did not give them the satisfaction of meeting their gaze. She held her head up proudly and walked of her own accord, a guard flanking her on either side as His Eminence led the way.

The Great Sage brought her to the dungeon. He held the door open for her, bowed his head slightly as she passed him on her way through. He said nothing, but motioned for the guards to follow as he led the way to a heavy wooden door. His Eminence repeated his show of chivalry and held the door for her, but his eyes, when she chanced a look at them, were not warm and inviting, but startlingly empty.

"Lady Elise von Mannheim..."

His Majesty stood by a table big enough for four, with a single chair placed on either side. Lord Weller stood just inside the door; he stared at her, but she could not read the expression upon his face. Lord von Christ sat in a chair placed on the right side of the table with rolls of parchment, an ink pot, and a quill. Lord von Voltaire simply stood by the left wall, glowering darkly.

So the rumors were true. They'd been released from prison already.

The King motioned to the chair across from him. One of the guards escorted her to it. She sat primly, and made no struggle when her shackled hands were affixed to the chair-arms. The guards left then, taking their positions outside the door.

His Majesty sat in the opposite chair, staring at her intently. Elise looked him straight in the eye and saw a cold fire burning there. His was not the face of a pleasant, carefree young man, but that of a King handling his subjects with a firm resolve. She could just make out the faint outline of blue light that surrounded him and was immediately intrigued.

Having only dealt with the King's benevolent side, she'd not truly believed he had this in him. People were prone to exaggerate, and rumors tended to take on a life of their own. Yet here she could clearly see that every word spoken about the level of his strength was true.

Here sat a great and powerful King.

"Lady Elise von Mannheim," he said her name again, bringing her back to the encounter. "You know why you are here."

She put on her best act and made a play of confusion. "I apologize, Your Majesty, I do not," she said, and shook her head in bewilderment. "His Eminence did not explain the charges."

"Your Father has been accused of administering poison to my Consort.."

Now that was interesting—the possession. He spoke of Prince Wolfram not by title, but as his own.

"Who accuses him?" she asked, earnest, though she did not expect the King to share such information with her.

Sure enough, His Majesty eyed her disapprovingly and said, "That is none of your concern. You are here to answer for your father's treason."

"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I am not my father."

"Have you communicated with Lord Julius von Mannheim since his departure from Blood Pledge Castle?" His Eminence inquired.

Elise shifted her gaze from the King to the Great Sage. She shook her head again. "Only a single letter, Your Eminence. He wished me well and bid me to extend his congratulations to Your Eminence and the Lady Elizabeth. It rests upon the desk within my bedchamber, if you wish to read it."

"You've had no further contact?"

"No, Your Eminence. There's been none."

"Were you aware of his intentions?" the King asked, capturing her attention again.

"Your Majesty, if I suspected my father of having such designs against the Prince, I would have cautioned him against it. I knew only that he wished to remove Prince Wolfram from power, not his methods for doing so. My father risks too much for the sake of my late brother. If it is true that he is responsible for the Prince being poisoned, our family will never recover from the shame."

It galled her to say such things. Her statement's rang true, of course, and that fact only made it worse, for to express any sort of sympathy for the Prince left a bad taste in her mouth. Yet express it she did; she knew how to play her hand.

"Where is he now?" the King demanded.

Elise made to widen her eyes. "I know not, Your Majesty."

"He has not answered my summons, nor has the messenger sent to deliver it returned."

Silently she cursed her father for his impulsiveness. He fared worse on the run than he did in returning to the castle. There was nothing to prove her father responsible. If they could only determine who had named him, they could blame familial bias and clear up the accusations. Her father had his own share of enemies. She'd put it past none of them to accuse her father while he was in no place to counter or defend himself.

By running, of course, her father had all but admitted his guilt.

_What are you doing, Father?_ she wondered. _Where have you gone?_

"I cannot speak for my father, Your Majesty," she said aloud. "I can only speak for myself."

Hastily, the King stood from his chair to loom over the table, one palm flat against the wooden surface while the other curled around the back of her neck, holding her still so that they might stare eye-to-eye.

Elise sat frozen. She was not accustomed to fear. She could not recognize it in herself in the event that she experienced it. Presently, her heart skipped wildly and her spine went tense and rigid. Her eyes widened again, this time of their own accord, and she gasped a breath when the King shook her none too gently.

"You will tell me what you know, Lady von Mannheim, or I will have you thrown into a prison cell," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

In that moment, she believed that he would, but the thought of being locked in the dungeon for an indeterminate period of time phased her less than her close proximity to the King. With his eyes so close to hers, she could see the the raging emotions within them; with his hand upon her neck she could feel his power tickling against her senses. It sent a shiver down her back and awoke a desire in her she'd not felt before.

"I know nothing, Your Majesty," she said.

"You lie. You mean to protect your traitorous father."

"My father is beyond my protection. He has made his choice. It is not one I myself condone."

His Majesty stared into her eyes, stared and stared as if he could look through her eyes and into her soul and determine for himself whether or not she was telling the truth. Though Elise had calmed somewhat since he'd reached across the table, she nonetheless showed him a face tinged with fear.

Did powerful men not like to see fear in their victim's eyes?

It seemed to work, for he released her neck and stood back from the table.

"Take her away," he said. "Place her in a cell and have her bedchamber searched. Tear it apart if you must."

His Eminence came around the table to unlatch her shackles from the chair-arms. Elise stood slowly, lowering her eyes now, appearing humbled. She did not struggle as she was led around the table; she did not scream threats or weep excuses, but walked calmly to her fate.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the King watch her as she passed. She could sense something brewing in him, could see it in his eyes and feel it in the pale light that surrounded him.

He looked at her as if he wanted to see her cowed and broken. She bowed her head and let him think she was.

* * *

><p>Louis Adla, the Duke of Braith, was accustomed to the grandeur of royal residences and so paid little mind to the lush décor around him. It was, after all, of little import. Instead, he observed the people who mingled through the halls in small glances out of the corners of his eyes, looking for weaknesses in the guards and courtiers alike.<p>

There, a young woman, clearly intrigued by him. Plied with strong wine and a number of compliments he didn't mean, she would become an overflowing source of information.

And there, a tired guard on duty, not quite yawning as of yet, but pale and heavy eyed. Louis could just see the slight slump in the man's otherwise formal posture. He took it as a sign that the guards were overworked, stretched thin in the absence of so many others under the subjugation of Cimaron's King Varick.

The Lord leading him was a barrel-chested man somewhere in his mid forties, with heavy eyebrows flecked with silvering hairs and a full beard not yet touched with gray. The man wore his dark hair long, as was the fashion in many parts of the world, bound back into a low tail. He strutted proudly even as his clothes spoke of less recent times. This Lord was not of the friendly sort; he asked no questions, nor did Louis expect him to answer any in kind. Louis was not there to chat with minor Lords, in any case, but this minor Lord's sovereign.

Louis was taken to a large throne room. The decorations were minimalistic and not worth a second glance, the wide space empty of courtiers or other dignitaries. At the end of the aisle was the dais upon which stood a large golden throne with red velvet cushions. The sunlight which streamed through the tall windows cast shadows upon the figure who sat there, concealing their appearance.

"Your Majesty," the bearded Lord bowed low, "our guest from Isidore, Lord Louis Adla, Duke of Braith."

"The King of Isidore sends a mere boy to see to his foreign affairs?" a smooth voice ringing with amusement spoke from the shadows.

Louis bowed as expected but had no other reaction to the comment. He cared little for what his host thought.

"Your Majesty," he greeted the foreign King, "you do my master a great honor in opening negotiations between our two countries."

"Mmm, is that so? And here I thought Lyron had no need of me. He's certainly kept his distance until now."

"I apologize on His Majesty's behalf. It is true he has cast his attention elsewhere for many years."

"He wants the Demon Kingdom," the voice said.

"And its Prince," Louis concluded.

A light laugh was the response. "And what would Lyron offer me for my support?" the King said.

"Freedom from Cimaron's rule."

A hush fell over them. Louis's escort quietly removed himself from the scene, slipping out of the room without attracting either of their attention. Then they were alone in the overlarge chamber. Louis took this opportunity to slowly approach the throne.

"Cimaron has freed Caloria and Francia, but your Kingdom remains under Varick's power," he said. "My master can only wonder why that is."

"Perhaps Varick has had second thoughts. Certainly his wife would give him cause to distrust me."

"My master can free you, and return you to your proper place."

"I assure you, Lord Adla, that while Cimaron may hold us in its power, I have not lost my proper place. Everything within this domain is mine to command. Varick cannot hope to keep me sequestered here for long."

"Yet he has done so for four years," Louis said.

The King paused again. Louis felt as if he were being examined, sized up. He stopped his approach a few yards away from the dais steps, looking up into the eyes which peered out from the shadows. He saw the flicker of light for just a moment, like the glare of light on glass.

"Be that as it may, I see little in the arrangement as is that would benefit me," the King said.

"My master is willing to pay any price for your support."

Another laugh, this one louder than the first. "I need no money, Lord Adla, I assure you."

"What is it you wish?"

There was a rustling of fabric as the King stood from his throne. He descended the steps slowly and came into the light, an amused smirk upon his face.

The figure that revealed himself was quite young—roughly Louis's age, if he were to make a guess. The King's complexion was fair in the sunlight, his features delicate and lovely. Long, pale blonde hair streamed down a narrow back. The King's thin body was clothed in white, with a fur-lined cape about his shoulders. Amber eyes twinkled behind a pair of tinted glasses.

"I want Varick deposed," said the foreign King. "I want all of Cimaron under my command. And I want the Demon King alive."

"What business have you with King Yuuri?"

"You will know in time, I'm sure. In return for this, what does Lyron request of me?"

"He simply requests your support, and use of your navy."

"Such a small price to pay for so great a reward," the King observed.

Louis said nothing in return. He merely peered up at the King and waited, unruffled by his appearance or by his blasé attitude.

Finally, the King's smirk stretched into a grin.

"Very well. I will have my councilors draft a proposal for you to put to your King," he said.

Then Saralegui, King of Small Cimaron, crept back into the shadows and retook his throne.

* * *

><p>The darkness frightened Wolfram more than the poison had.<p>

There were methods to counteract poison. An antidote could be created or, if caught early, the poison could be flushed from one's system before it had the chances to do lasting harm. Poison could be _prevented _with taste-testing, once such an unnecessary practice by Yuuri's reasoning. Now it seemed imperative, and Wolfram wondered if Yuuri would changed his mind. If he hadn't, surely Gwendal and Conrart would insist upon it—if not simply for Wolfram's safety, but Yuuri's own.

The darkness had no cure but time, and even that was not a guarantee. Perhaps sight would returned to him. Perhaps it wouldn't. Wolfram could spend the remainder of his life wandering the dark, never to see the faces of his loved ones again. Gisela could tell him nothing; she made him no promises, only insisted that he must be strong and have hope.

Hope was difficult. Certainly he felt none. Wolfram was not optimistic by nature, had never been despite his apparent boastfulness. One could take pride in oneself without assuming the best in any given situation. With nothing but nightmares to visit him during his once pleasant nights, and nothing but darkness and shadow to greet him when he awoke, Wolfram had no cause to hope for anything but justice.

Yuuri would give him that, at least.

"His Excellency Lord von Bielefeld remains imprisoned. Ladies von Yale, von Hassel, and von Grantz will be put to further questioning regarding their compliance with Lord von Mannheim's plot, as well as their failure to name him during previous interrogations."

Wolfram sat up in bed in his nightdress and dressing gown, the color of which was naturally beyond his knowledge. He knew not what time of day it was, only that breakfast had passed and it was daylight. A set of pillows cushioned his back; a blanket lay draped over his legs, weak and nearly useless as they had become. Though he could not see her, Wolfram could hear Katherine Algren on his right. He assumed she'd taken a chair beside his bed so that she might bring him up to date on recent happenings in comfort. He could not hear Brigitta or Alexei and assumed they must be in lessons; Merry crawled over Wolfram's lap.

One of Wolfram's hands reached out shakily and went to Merry's blonde baby curls. Wolfram wrapped his arms around the child and pulled him close, and wished with all his heart that he could see him.

Merry giggled and babbled as if nothing had changed. "Maaammmmmmmmma!"

"There's been no word from Julius?" Wolfram said.

"No, Your Majesty. None."

"What of Yozak and GegenHuber?"

"Lord Weller tells me their last report showed little progress. There's been no sign of Lord von Mannheim since he separated from the escort to Cimaron."

Wolfram clenched his teeth in anger. Briefly he wondered what his expression must look like to Katherine. Did his eyes look as vacant to others as they seemed to him?

A hand touched one of his own. Wolfram gave a start at the suddenness, but calmed quickly when he realized it was only Katherine's.

"All will be well, Your Majesty," she said kindly. "The King will not stop until the guilty are brought to justice. He has been working tirelessly to—"

"I know," Wolfram said. He could heard the sadness and the hurt in his own voice.

Katherine quieted for a moment, perhaps realizing she'd said something wrong, though her hand remained upon his. Her grip tightened comfortingly. "His Majesty only wants to do what is right," she said.

"Then why does he not see me?"

It was worse than the darkness—the loneliness. He had his mother and Elizabeth, he had Greta and Katherine and the children, he had his brothers and Gunter, Anissina and Gisela, but he did not have his husband. Yuuri had been there when he awoke from the dark dreamworld, and had not been back since.

Wolfram remembered a time, not so very long ago, when Yuuri found an escape in Earth, and the pain and grief it had caused to an already battered heart. Perhaps it was that which caused Wolfram's lack of hope. He found hope in Yuuri; without him there, Wolfram had nothing but a bleak reality.

"Where has he been sleeping?" Wolfram asked.

"His office, I expect," Katherine said. "Lord Weller says the King has been having a difficult time of it."

"And what of me? Am I not having a difficult time?"

"Your Majesty..."

"He should be _here_," Wolfram said, insistent. "Why can he not seek justice as well as stand by my side?"

"Why can he not handle Merry?" Katherine said.

The question gave Wolfram pause. He knew the answer, of course, whether or not Yuuri would admit it to him. Yuuri could not face Merry because of his own guilt.

But why should he feel guilty for this? It was not of his own doing. Yuuri had not slipped the poison into his cup, nor had he made him drink it. He was responsible for this no more than he'd been responsible for Ilyich murdering Merry's mother. Wolfram thought himself the foolish one for not thinking any better of it, for not suspecting something nefarious when his cup had not been present at the high table at the start of the banquet.

He should have known better. He _did_ know better. Everything about that situation had been suspicious from start to finish. His missing cup, the maid who brought it, the taste—it all spoke of poison. And yet he'd drank from the cup and sat between Yuuri and Greta without being any the wiser as to what was in store for him.

Why? When had he become so negligent? He was a soldier, had _been_ a soldier for a majority of his life.

Had they really grown so careless? After all these years, after everything they'd been through, had they come to assume poison to be of little consequence. Their enemies were less innocuous, men like Belal and Lyron who preferred grand displays of their own power. In the game of subtitles Julius engaged in, they were woefully out of practice.

But it was not Yuuri's fault.

"Is Yuuri well?" Wolfram asked. One of Merry's hands came up to his face and pulled at a lock of hair.

"He is... not quite himself," Katherine said.

Wolfram removed Merry's hand with an admirable amount of patience, holding Merry's little wrist gently and pressing a kiss to his fist.

"The Demon King," Wolfram said. He did not need to voice it as a question. Katherine's meaning seemed obvious to him.

"Yes, Your Majesty. He spends much of his time sequestered away with His Eminence, Lord von Voltaire, and your father when he is not overseeing the interrogations."

"He always was a meddlesome king."

"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?"

"He's not the sort to stand back and let his councilors act on his behalf," Wolfram explained.

He could hear a smile in Katherine's voice when she said, "I like to think that is what makes him a good king."

A good king. Wolfram was sure whether or not one was a good king was a matter of opinion. Any two people could have opposing thoughts as to what made one good and just. Opinion was influenced by a variety of factors—environment, social standing, experience. It was not often so easy to guess how one thought or felt if they were clever enough to reveal a different face to the world.

Like Julius von Mannheim.

That Julius was responsible came as no surprise to the part of Wolfram that had a von Bielefeld's pride. The Mannheims and the Bielefelds had been quietly at one another's throats for decades. Yet there remained a part of him that felt as betrayed as Yuuri must surely feel. He felt betrayed on Yuuri's behalf more than his own. He experienced all the shock and sadness and anger that Yuuri must have felt, and he did not blame Yuuri for relying on the Demon King to handle the sting.

And yet, he could not help but feel neglected. Even though he knew Yuuri's work was for the good of the Kingdom, even though he knew Yuuri only sought to avenge him, there were moments when Wolfram would rather have Yuuri with him than hidden away in some office or dungeon room, plotting his next course of action with Wolfram's brothers and the Sage. The part of him that feared the darkness yearned to be comforted and reassured—guided by strong, steady hands and his husband's calm assurances.

For now, at least, that was not to be.

"Would you call for my mother?" Wolfram asked of Katherine. His voice grew low and bitter, full of anger and embarrassment. "I require her assistance to the washroom."

Katherine's hand slipped away. There was a rustling of fabric as she stood. "Of course, Your Majesty."

As she turned for the door, Wolfram clung to Merry as he was wont to do, staring with unceasing misery into the dark abyss.

* * *

><p>Murata Ken was by no means a foolish man. With countless lifetimes of memories and experiences at his disposal, it was not so easy to pull the wool over his eyes. Though he was not gifted with the powers of foresight, he could nonetheless generally predict the course of the Kingdom's happenings. He knew the lay of the land, was well versed in the current political climate, knew where to look when any sign of trouble arose.<p>

Even so, he'd expected this no more than anyone else. That Julius von Mannheim should turn traitor against the King had once seemed impossible. Julius was a calm, steady presence on a council of men and women constantly at odds with one another.

At least until Wolfgang von Bielefeld was thrown into the mix.

Therein lied the problem. Murata knew that now. He'd assumed the past was in the past. Clearly, he had been wrong. Julius was merely biding his time through the years, waiting for the perfect moment to present itself before taking his revenge on the man who'd taken his own son from him.

An eye for an eye, as the saying goes. Or, in this case, a son for a son.

Murata had no interest in wading through family affairs. What the Mannheims and Bielefelds did to one another was their own business. It was of none of his concern until it encroached upon the Kingdom's peace. Now that it had done so, Murata wondered if he should have paid attention sooner. Surely this could have been prevented if they'd had more of a care for the enemies in their own country rather than their enemies abroad.

And yet... there was a sense that this was inevitable. Not the situation itself, but the fallout from it.

The Council of Aristocrats would no longer be the same, Murata was sure of that. After such a betrayal from so many of their number, they could never hope to recover the power and authority they once enjoyed. For better or for worse the distribution of power between those at the head of the monarchy was shifting and changing—away from the Aristocratic families and into the waiting hands of the King.

It was a change four thousand years in the making. Still, Murata could not determine his feelings on the matter. A part of him was pleased that Shibuya was coming into his own, moving beyond the shadow and the legend of the Great One to create his own legacy. Shibuya was changing as surely as the world was changing around him, slipping further away from youth and into the role his soul had been specifically crafted for. Shibuya was embracing his powers, and learning more about himself in the process.

But there was another part of Murata that remained concerned that things were happening in the wrong way, that Shibuya's dependence and attachment to von Bielefeld would bring further turmoil to a country still recovering from the events which occurred four years ago.

It was not that he disliked von Bielefeld. The Prince was young and rash, arrogant to a degree that could be dangerous, but he was an unflinching source of support and strength to a King whose lingering sense of inferiority required frequent validation. It was that von Bielefeld had grown from offering comfort and encouragement, and perhaps unwanted criticism over Shibuya's actions, to nurturing a pride and an ego within Shibuya that had never quite been there before.

Shibuya could find confidence in himself because von Bielefeld showered him with praise; Shibuya unknowingly grasped for power because von Bielefeld steered him in that direction. The danger came in their dependence on one another. What could they expect from Shibuya should something happen to von Bielefeld?

"Ken...?"

Murata was surprised by the sudden intrusion of another voice, but showed none of it in his expression or body language. He'd had centuries to practice restraint, after all.

He turned and spied Elizabeth standing in the doorway, a curious look upon her face.

It seemed odd to him to call her his wife. Affection he could demonstrate, but he was not normally the sort to show love. Certainly he felt no sense of possessiveness. Elizabeth was her own person—tied to him now, surely, but an individual in her own right.

"Ken," she said again, her voice carrying from the door in a low whisper, "what keeps you here so late?"

Murata turned from her. He heard the tapping of her shoes on the floor as she entered, and the quiet click of the door as she closed it behind her. Slowly she approached and came to a stop at his side.

Upon the couch within the King's office lied the King himself, one arm thrown over his eyes in sleep—as if to block out reality, or what little candlelight cast the room in a dim golden glow. Murata frowned as he looked upon the King again; from the corner of his eye, he noted Elizabeth do the same.

"You seem out of sorts," she observed.

"Do I?" Murata said.

"You've been distant."

It was not an accusation; rather, it was a matter of concern. Murata received few accusations from Elizabeth. Perhaps that was what drew him to her—she placed in him her complete trust, and did not look to his behavior as a sign of his feelings for her. She did not often search for love in his eyes, but trusted instead in his words.

"I apologize," he said.

She shook her head. "There's no need. You will do as you must. I've long accepted that."

In many ways Elizabeth and von Bielefeld were undeniably alike. Impulsive, passionate, bred with pride and arrogance in their bones, in their very core. But where they differed from one another was just as important, and just as obvious to Murata, as the ways in which they were alike.

Von Bielefeld insisted upon always being by Shibuya's side. Elizabeth, on the contrary, knew when to take a step back.

"Come," he told her. He motioned her away and directed her back to the door. "You must be tired."

They left the office together. They did not touch as one might expect of a newly wedded couple, not to link their arms nor to walk hand-in-hand. There was a closeness to them nonetheless, that one could observe if they were to look deeply enough. Their feelings for one another did not always need to be expressed by physical means. They need only be there for one another for love to pass between them.

It was truly an unexpected relationship, even to Murata himself. Casual flirtation had been his game for so long he wouldn't have known how to look for love had it not happened upon him the way it had with Elizabeth. His thoughts were too focused on the King and Kingdom to allow him to nurture a traditional relationship. Elizabeth understood that; she accepted it, and loved him for his dedication even when it was not directed towards her.

She was a remarkable woman—unselfish in a way too few people were.

"The King is changing," she said. There was sadness in her voice, no doubt experienced for the sake of her childhood friend.

"Not changing," Murata relied. "He is evolving."

"I don't understand..."

"He was always meant to embrace his powers. From the time his soul came into existence, and through all the centuries of its cultivation, it was intended for Shibuya to come into his own."

"I fail to see how relying on the Demon King is coming into his own," Elizabeth said.

"Perhaps because you, as many do, view Shibuya and the form he takes when he embraces his powers as two separate beings."

"Are they not?"

"No," Murata said, "as that would imply the presence of two distinct souls. Every being has only one soul. Even Shibuya."

"Then... what has become of him?" Elizabeth asked. "How is he evolving?"

"Think of Shibuya and the Demon King as two halves of the same soul," he explained. "For most of Shibuya's life, a barrier has existed between both halves of his soul. He lived as a human in a world of peace. His Demon powers were unnecessary, and so they were cordoned off until there came a day when Shibuya had need of them. As he's grown older and used his powers more frequently, that barrier has slowly been deteriorating."

"But he is different like this. As the Demon King. He is not himself."

"Is he not? Or does he simply lack the reservations that come from his Earthen upbringing?"

"If this is how it was meant to be then why do you appear so concerned for him?" Elizabeth said. Again, there was not a trace of accusation in her voice.

"I worry that it happens too quickly," Murata said.

"Is there a danger in that?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Only time will tell."

They came upon their room, just a few doors down from the royal bedchamber. Elizabeth looked sadly in that direction; no doubt her thoughts were with her friend. Murata simply opened the door to their room and waited patiently for Elizabeth to pull herself away from her feelings for Wolfram von Bielefeld. She did so soon enough, and she crossed into their room without further hesitation.

Murata followed her, quietly closing the door behind them.

Elizabeth turned to him, took his hands and stepped back to guide him through their formal sitting room. In the bedchamber proper, her hands released his and rose to undo the fastenings of his jacket.

"I worry for you," she said gently. "I know when you experience stress, despite your many attempts to hide it from me."

Murata took a breath and let it out on a long sigh. "I admit the situation is... tense..." he said, and clarified quickly, "unpredictable. I despise unpredictability."

"I think you fear the lack of control you have in these matters."

He laughed, a short, amused little laugh that ended as quickly as it came. "To say that I fear it is, I think, a bit extreme."

"Then it unsettles you. You've orchestrated events for so long you've no idea how to manage a situation orchestrated by someone else."

"You presume to know me so well?" he teased lightly.

Elizabeth smiled and peeled his jacket from the tense set of his shoulders. "Would I have consented to marry a stranger?" she said.

Murata neither confirmed nor denied that. Instead, he shifted his thoughts down another path entirely.

"We never did have our honeymoon," he said. He shook his head humorlessly. "And I thought the Great One was troublesome. Shibuya could certainly give him a run for his money."

Elizabeth chuckled and made quick work of the buttons that fastened his shirt. She took his hands again, and guided him toward the large bed on the opposite side of the room.

Murata followed her without complaint, and when she leaned up to press her lips against his own he let his worries drift away to be dealt with at a later time. His hands went to her waist; he pulled her close and lost himself in the feel of her, and the simple nature of her unwavering love.

What would come would come. They need only accept it, and face it head-on.

* * *

><p>The steady fall of hooves against packed dirt split through an otherwise silent night.<p>

The weather cooled steadily as the seasons shifted, as a long summer slowly bled into crisp fall. Above, the moon was new and dark, leaving the stars alone to light the way. They were but small silver flecks in a black sky, twinkling a signal from the heavens onto the land below.

A good omen? Or a bad one? There was no way to tell. Yet the man upon the horse, a hood shielding his face as his dark cloaked streamed behind him, chose to take his chances. Perhaps, if luck was with him, he would be able to make his own fate.

He heard voices behind him, one of them familiar, shouting orders he could not quite discern from this distance, though he knew the sounds for what they were. A hunting party—soldiers in pursuit of prey.

The man urged his horse faster, a swift shadow in the night. Before him laid a large stretch of forest, the sort of tall trees and dense undergrowth he could easily lose himself in. He made his plans without hesitation; he would enter, dismount, send his horse off as a decoy, and continue his way on foot.

He need only to keep his pursuers at bay long enough.

All that was required was time.

A figure fell from the tree-line in front of him, dropping from a high branch to land nimbly upon the ground. The suddenness of the figure's descent startled the horse, which reared back and whinnied loudly, heaving breaths hanging as vapor in the cool air. A glint of metal gleamed in the starlight; the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath reached his ears.

The man regained control of his horse and turned, but before he could make his getaway the hunting party was already upon him, circling on horseback and closing him in. A few of them carried torches. The rest brought their hands to the hilts of their swords. They all wore the Weller uniform. At their center, directly across from him, glared the bright blue eyes of Yozak Gurrier.

"Lord Julius von Mannheim!"

The voice came from behind. He whipped around to face the figure blocking his path to the tree-line. The orange glow of torchlight revealed the figure to be none other than Lord GegenHuber Griesela, face twisted in fury.

Uttering a curse beneath his breath, the cloaked man took the reins in one hand and drew his sword with the other, prepared to fight his way out if he must.

His actions earned him a snarl from Lord Griesela, as well as a humorless chuckle from Gurrier, now at his back.

"You are under arrest by order of His Majesty the King!" Lord Griesela announced. "Put down your weapon and surrender, or you shall face justice here without trial!"

"Come now, Lord Griesela. We all know what a farce such a trial would be."

The sound of his voice startled them, as it should.

He brought his hands to the hood of his cloak and pulled it down to show his face, revealing himself to be not Julius von Mannheim, but his second-in-command.

"Lord Edmund Eckhart," Lord Griesela observed.

Gurrier cursed passionately at his back.

Eckhart smirked his victory. "My master bids you a good evening. Please accept my apologies on his behalf. He is unable to join us."

"Search the surroundings!" Gurrier demanded of his men. "He can't have gone far!"

"I assure you, Gurrier, my master is far from your influence."

Lord Griesela grit his teeth and glowered, his hands tightening upon the hilt of his sword.

"You waste your time on me," Eckhart said.

"You are servant to a declared traitor," Lord Griesela said. "Put down your weapon and dismount. You are under arrest and will answer for your crimes before the King."

"I think not."

Lord Griesela had no time to react; he had even less time to prepare himself. Eckhart leapt from his horse in one graceful bound, raising his sword to bring it down upon Lord Griesela. Even put off his guard, Lord Griesela managed to meet his blade. His one blue eye peered darkly into Eckhart's face. The man was clearly out for blood.

"Eckhart!" Gurrier shouted.

He ignored the peasant soldier-turned-spy until Gurrier drew his sword and urged his horse closer to the skirmish. Eckhart ducked beneath Gurrier's blade as it came for him, rolling out from the tangle of horse hooves. He sprang to his feet when he found an opening and made to run for the cover of trees.

"_Eckhart_!" Gurrier called again.

It was a warning as much as it was a battle cry. Eckhart made it three yards passed Lord Griesela before pain ripped through his lower abdomen. He drew to a sudden stop and looked down to see the end of a blade protruding from his stomach. Blood bubbled up his throat; Eckhart cursed, coughed, and spat red onto the ground.

Behind him, Lord Griesela seethed ominously. He withdrew his sword, grabbed Eckhart's shoulder and forced him to his knees.

Eckhart coughed and chuckled darkly. His vision began to waver as blood streamed from the fatal wound.

"Where is Lord von Mannheim?" Gurrier demanded as Lord Griesela circled around to stare into Eckhart's eyes as the life slowly drained out of him.

"Far out of your reach," Eckhart laughed.

"_Where_?" Lord Griesela said. He brought the bloodied blade of his sword to one side of Eckhart's neck.

Eckhart felt no fear. He stared steadily back at Lord Griesela even as his vision continued to darken. Eckhart's mouth split into a wide smile, red with his own blood. He knew he would died, and he was prepared for it.

At least he would see the fierce rage upon their faces before his life came to an end.

"He has fled... Your Excellency..." Eckhart said.

"_Where_?" Lord Griesela commanded of him again.

Eckhart laughed with dying humor. "C-Cimaron..."

He could almost hear the smirk in Gurrier's voice as the man said, "Easy enough. Varick will see that he is captured and sent home to face judgement."

"N-No..." Eckhart said. He shook his head. The wide smile remained upon his face. "No, you fools... Varick is but one King of Cimaron."

Gurrier fell silent. Lord Griesela's sword pressed more firmly against Eckhart's neck.

"Speak," Lord Giesela said.

Eckhart released a final laugh as he uttered his last words, "His Majesty... S-Saralegui..."

He watched Lord Griesela's nostrils flare and his single eye widen.

"His Majesty will have justice," Lord Griesela said.

The last thing Eckhart saw was Lord Griesela's sword swinging back. It arched toward him, too quickly for his waning visions to follow.

His life ended with his head cleaved from his neck.

* * *

><p>Yuuri's consciousness drew forward as he entered the dungeons. The tense muscles around his eyes eased, and the blue light that seemed to surround him so frequently these days faded until there was not a trace of it left. He tipped his head and rolled the tension from his neck, stretched his arms and heard his back pop loudly in the stillness and the quiet. He heaved a sigh as he came upon a line of dark, damp cells.<p>

Not one of their prisoners spoke as he passed. Lady von Yale had long ago lost her battle with fatigue and slept fitfully upon a stiff cot; Lady von Hassel glared from the depths of her prison but said nothing, having long run out of words; and Lady von Grantz wept her sorrows and misery in the corner of her cell, her body turned from him as if it pained her to look at him.

It took every last ounce of his determination and resolve not to be affected by the show. He was not without sympathy or compassion; he was also no stranger to anger and vengeance, and these prisoners had done him a great wrong.

Lord Auberon von Bielefeld sat on the floor of his cell, his back against the side of his cot, eyes staring out emotionlessly as Yuuri passed. It was a pitiful sight, but one Lord von Bielefeld had brought upon himself. He may not have slipped the poison into Wolfram's drink by his own hand, but he and the Ladies remained equally responsible.

Finally, Yuuri came to the last cell on the hall. He turned to look through the bars, a frown on his face as he looked in on Lady Elise von Mannheim.

"Lady von Mannheim," he called to her, not without kindness.

She looked up from her place huddled miserably on her cot, her green eyes gone wide. She scrambled up onto her feet and dipped a hasty curtsy, but failed to meet his eye when she rose again.

"Your Majesty..." she said.

Yuuri looked upon her, at her unkempt hair and her dirtied clothes, at the humbled look in her eyes and the miserable set of her posture, and he felt pity for her.

He was not so naïve as to think she presented no harm to him. He knew her to be as skilled with a blade as Wolfram and Elizabeth. She was the daughter of one of their most revered Generals. Certainly she could pose a danger to him if she wished.

He did not believe she feared him as much as she pretended to, nor did he believe she felt as much guilt and sorrow as she expressed.

"Has there been word of my father?" she asked.

Yuuri brought a hand up to one of the bars and gripped it loosely. "No," he said.

"I see..."

He stared at her, listened to the tired tone of her voice, and he felt conflicted. One side of him saw her as she appeared, as a woman chastened by disgrace, not exempt from any crimes she may have committed by her gender, but perhaps deserving of a little more consideration. At the same time, the experienced and logical part of Yuuri's mind viewed her no differently than he viewed Auberon von Bielefeld.

Neither had come to him when they'd had the chance. Neither of them had revealed her father's plot until it was too late.

Of course, there was a major difference between Lady von Mannheim and Lord von Bielefeld, and that was that Lady von Mannheim did not speak to him with defiance in her voice.

"We've found no further evidence against you," he told her.

She nodded but did not yet show her relief.

"Do you know where your father would go if he were on the run?" he asked.

Lady von Mannheim shook her head. "No, Your Majesty, I do not. He never spoke of such things with me," she said.

"And you knew no details of his plan to poison Wolfram?"

"No, Your Majesty. I beg for your forgiveness and ask for your mercy nonetheless."

"My forgiveness..."

Irma Fieldler had asked for his forgiveness. He'd shown enough of it to release her from prison, return her to her family, and place her under house arrest instead. He knew not what he meant to do with her, though she would no longer be permitted entrance to the castle.

"I don't know that I have much forgiveness to give," Yuuri told her wearily.

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," she said. "My father has done you a great wrong which I can never hope to correct. It pains me that he has seen fit to betray you, when you have given him no reason to do so."

He could not detect a note of dishonesty in her voice, yet there remained a part of him that continued to look upon her with caution. He was not so quick to trust as he once was.

Wolfram would be pleased, if only Yuuri could make himself face him.

Stepping back from the cell bars, Yuuri waved one of the guards over. The guard saluted quickly and approach the cell with a ring of keys. One slipped into the lock on the bars and released it. The guard swung the bars open slowly. From inside, Lady von Mannheim stared at Yuuri with wonder in her eyes; he could not determine if it was genuine or not.

"Your Majesty...?"

"You will be escorted back to your room," he told her, "where you will remain under house arrest until your father has been apprehended. You will not be permitted a weapon, but you will be allowed to walk the gardens with an escort, and the maids will bring you each of your meals. Obviously you can no longer serve as governess to either Alexei or Kat Algren's daughter."

"Yes, of course, Your Majesty. I understand."

Finally her eyes rose to his and they caught his gaze with such gratefulness Yuuri was almost taken aback. Suddenly he felt guilty for suspecting her of anything.

What reason had she given him except that she was daughter to a traitor? How was that her fault?

Yuuri cleared his throat and stepped away from the cell. "I may check on your from time to time," he said, "to see how you're fairing."

Lady von Mannheim bowed her head and dipped another curtsy.

The guard stood aside to allow her to exit. Another key slipped into the lock of her shackles and released them once she'd crossed out of the cell. She rubbed at her chaffed wrists but gave no complaint, and offered Yuuri a small, bittersweet smile as she was escorted away.

Yuuri stared after her until she was gone. Then he made his way slowly back down the hall of cells.

From the depths of his prison, Lord Auberon von Bielefeld muttered as Yuuri passed.

"_Fool_..."

**TBC...**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Was anyone as surprised to see Sara brought in as I was to write it?

Also, I recently put together a playlist of songs I've collected over the years to create a soundtrack for _Love and War_. You can find it at: 8tracks dot com slash mikage-san slash love-and-war


	6. Chapter Six: Shifting Tides

**Disclaimer: ** I do not own Kyou Kara Maou or any of its characters. All of the original characters were, however, created by me.

**Beta-ed by: **G, whose support through all these years will forever be appreciated.

**Warnings:** Language, violence, general dark/adult themes, angst, sexual content, sexual content of dubious consent/non-consensual sex, blood, torture, and OC!character death.

**Pairings:** Yuuri/Wolfram. Other side pairings will be mentioned, including Murata/Elizabeth and Lyron/Wolfram.

**Setting: **Seven years post Season 2. Three years after the events of _Love and War_. Yuuri is 23, Wolfram is 89 (17), and Greta is 18. As with _Love and War_, please ignore all OVAs as well as the entirety of Season 3.

**Rating: **M

**A/N: **Thank you all for your reviews! They mean the world to me!

Also, please pay special attention to the "sexual content of dubious consent/non-consensual sex" warning for this chapter!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Between Kings<strong>_

by Mikage

**Chapter Six – _Shifting Tides_**

Small Cimaron was as one would expect of its name: diminutive in size compared to its larger counterpart. Yet in maintained influence over the wider world all the same. Only a third of Big Cimaron's size, Small Cimaron was nonetheless nearly equal to Big Cimaron in population. Big Cimaron's people were strewn about over a wintry landscape; Small Cimaron, on the other hand, contained larger communities and generally boasted a more temperate climate in comparison.

Less contentious than Big Cimaron within the global political sphere, Small Cimaron as a nation tended to keep itself well removed from the affairs of surrounding countries. Surely not isolated, not by any means, for they maintained lucrative trade agreements where Big Cimaron often saw theirs disintegrate. Rather, Small Cimaron was historically non-combative. They did not fight wars of greed and power, but those of necessity.

For much of the last decade, Small Cimaron presented itself as a bit of a mystery. Under the control of a young King with a negligent reputation among his contemporaries, it was thought by many that Small Cimaron would flounder without strength and maturity at its seat of power. Those who hypothesized as much were not wrong, for Small Cimaron remained firmly within the King of Big Cimaron's dominion. Not quite unified but no longer entirely separate, Big and Small Cimaron existed both together and apart, with Big Cimaron showing itself to be the more domineering of the two.

And yet, only a fool would count Small Cimaron out. A young King Small Cimaron may have, but Saralegui was known to be ambitious in his own right. Perhaps Varick of Big Cimaron kept Saralegui under his control not for any desire to keep Small Cimaron as his own, but as a precaution.

After all, it was Saralegui's men, under orders by their King, who'd foolishly opened the first of the Forbidden Boxes with an incorrect Key. That Saralegui cared not for what became of the wider world seemed to many to be a great possibility. A relative unknown otherwise, Saralegui was nonetheless a danger to all those who underestimated him.

Lord Julius von Mannheim was not the sort to underestimate a King cornered by larger and arguably more influential enemies. He arrived in Small Cimaron with a notable understanding of its workings. The expected deference was shown to Varick of Big Cimaron, but the people and their government remained loyal to Saralegui above all else.

"Lord von Mannheim..."

The voice which spoke to him was young and boyish, and full of unconstrained amusement.

Once, well over a decade ago, Julius had seen Saralegui as a child, mere months before Saralegui himself had become King following the untimely death of his father. At the time, the intended negotiations had naturally fallen apart, as the world was not yet ready to embrace any sort of alliance between a human country and the Great Demon Kingdom. Yet the experience had given Julius the opportunity to observe Small Cimaron's future king up close.

Saralegui's father had been a dark, brooding man. Spiteful and arrogant, he behaved as Julius had come to expect of a human King. He treated his son, soft-spoken and obedient as Saralegui had been, with a brusqueness bordering on spite. It was said at the time that old King Gilbert's hostility stemmed from the absence of his wife, Saralegui's mother. Thus, the child that remained from the union bore the brunt of his father's displeasure.

Julius remembered thinking Saralegui a pitiful child with an air of neglect about him. Slight in build and poor in constitution, Saralegui suffered a curious allergy to sunlight. He grew pale from lack of exposure, and even as a child Saralegui had never been seen without a pair of tinted eyeglasses

Very little of that boy remained in Saralegui today. Certainly he was not of an impressive stature—average in height and slight in weight—and he maintained a softness about his looks that appeared almost feminine. But there was a strength to his demeanor and a cleverness to his gaze that Julius could not deny. That others may look down on Saralegui only served to Saralegui's benefit.

"Your Majesty..."

They met in a presence chamber not far from the throne room, where Julius had been taken shortly after his arrival. His taking up residence in the chamber had been followed by a grueling wait. Hours passed with no word from King or councilor. Knowing they meant to test him, Julius met his solitude with determined patience.

Julius turned to the figure in the doorway and lowered himself into a deferential bow. Saralegui was not alone. Instead, he was accompanied by another young man with ashen hair and dull, vacant green eyes. Julius's eyes flicked between them carefully but he made no mention of the other's presence, nor did he request any sort of introduction or explanation.

"What brings you to Small Cimaron, Lord von Mannheim?" Saralegui inquired.

"Your Majesty," Julius began, "I find myself in need of foreign assistance."

"You are wanted by your King."

"By my King's councilors," Julius countered easily enough. "His Majesty's councilors maintain a great influence. My King knows no better than to follow them."

"I was not under the impression that King Yuuri was the sort to be led around by inferior men," Saralgui said.

"His Majesty is enamored with his spouse. This unfounded adoration jeopardizes his senses. The King is blind to the truth. I wish to free him from Prince Wolfram's influence."

"And so you come to me in the hopes that I might see your ambitions realized."

"No, Your Majesty," Julius said, his voice calm and even. "I come to you only for your protection."

Saralegui considered him. His eyes, though weak and shielded, were nonetheless capable of examining an individual with a gaze that could only be described as piercing. There was a shrewdness and a strength in Saralegui's eyes that could only result from an uncompromising confidence—an attitude one might not have expected of him considering Saralegui's strained relationship with his late father.

"Come now, Lord von Mannheim, what hope have you to accomplish such weighty ambitions on your own?"

Julius met Saralegui's eye not with defiance or disrespect, but with an open faith in Saralegui's ability to reason. Here was not a weak, pitiful King at the mercy of those far superior to him in strength, as many would believe of the King of Small Cimaron, but a young man of equal strength and as yet undetermined capabilities. Julius looked into Saralegui's eyes and saw ambition to match his own.

"His Majesty will come to his senses in time. Then he will see Prince Wolfram for what he really is."

"And what is Prince Wolfram?" the figure beside Saralegui asked.

"A hindrance," Julius said.

Saralegui's lips curved into a slow smile. "Surely you must realize that I shall expect something in return for my cooperation."

"I am prepared to pay the prince, Your Majesty."

Saralegui laughed in response. "So quick to assume," he observed. "I fear I have no reason to trust you, Lord von Mannheim. You poison your own Prince, betray your own King, and yet you come to ask after my protection as if my trust is so easily earned."

"Your Majesty, forgive me, I have no need of your trust."

Saralegui's purple-tinted amber gaze grew sharp as his eyes narrowed slightly behind his glasses. It was not a look of displeasure so much as it was one of intrigue. Julius had managed to gain Saralegui's interest with his honesty, whatever he might say to the contrary.

Suddenly Saralegui's grin widened. With one of his slender hands he motioned to the young man beside him.

They were of an age and equals in stature. Yet Saralegui's eyes twinkled with mirth and sparked with interest; the young man beside him simply stared vacantly, as if the exchange did not interest him in the least. Julius examined him. He did not think the boy to be of Small Cimaron, for his mode of dress bore noticeable differences. Where Small Cimaron's attire typical consisted of longer robes, this young man wore a short doublet adorned with pearls.

"Lord von Mannheim," Saralegui began. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't believe you've had the pleasure of the Duke of Braith's acquaintance."

The second figure executed a shallow bow in greeting.

Julius was sure to keep his emotions from his face, but the introduction told him many things. First, that Small Cimaron was at least in the beginning phases of negotiations with Isidore, whether or not a formal treaty had been signed. Second, that Saralegui wanted him to know it—for what reason, Julius could not yet decipher. And third, that the Demon Kingdom could soon be in very grave danger.

It was a sobering thought. Small Cimaron did not boast the significant force which Big Cimaron had at its disposal, but together with Isidore they would be a formidable enemy. Julius could only assume they meant to conduct a joint offensive against his homeland.

The General in him bristled in response. But a more pragmatic part of him knew Small Cimaron and Isidore's plans to be foolhardy at best. Meeting the Demon King on the field in the Great Demon Kingdom was a very dangerous undertaking for any human army. Certainly Julius worried for his country and felt a loyalty to its people inherent in any soldier, but his thoughts rested first and foremost with the King. His Majesty King Yuuri _must_ be made to see reason.

So Julius returned the Duke of Braith's shallow bow with one of his own.

"Your Grace," he said.

The Duke of Braith nodded to acknowledge the greeting but said nothing else.

Saralegui maintained his wide smile.

"We will discuss this further," he decided. "For now, you may consider sanctuary granted. The rest we can discuss at a later time."

Julius was unsure what Saralegui expected "the rest" to be. He certainly had little else in mind himself, though he would not put it past Saralegui to have something up his sleeve. The clever look in his eye seemed to promise as much.

"I thank you, Your Majesty," Julius said.

"You must be weary," Saralegui continued. "I will have one of my men escort you to an empty chamber so that you might rest."

"I am humbled by your generosity."

"Hmm. I suppose we shall see."

Saralegui turned to leave the presence chamber at that, hardly sparing Julius so much as a backwards glance.

But it was not Saralegui who had Julius's attention then. It was reserved instead for the Duke of Braith, whose expression had not changed a bit throughout the entire exchange. The Duke executed another shallow bow before turning as if he meant to follow Saralegui out of the room.

"My Lord Duke," Julius called.

The Duke stopped, turned again, and stared at Julius with his cold, disinterested eyes.

Julius smiled. He'd see those eyes flare to life momentarily, he was sure.

With a casualness that seemed inappropriate for the situation, Julius said, "I trust His Majesty Lyron has enjoyed his portrait."

* * *

><p>Seeing his older brother off was far more difficult this time than it had ever been before.<p>

Yuuri was more used to the relief that came with putting Shori's obsessive hovering and overprotective meddling behind him, so the feeling of homesickness and regret that filled him with the closing of the portal to Earth took him by surprise. It was a struggle not to turn around and reopen the doorway between both worlds. In the days and weeks following the banquet, he'd come to rely on Shori's presence as a small bit of normalcy in an otherwise abnormal life.

He did not regret telling his brother about Ilyich. The horror and devastation upon Shori's face when Yuuri revealed it to him would not soon leave his memory, but it came with a semblance of relief. Now there were no secrets between them. Finally, Shori understood.

It seemed odd to Yuuri that admitting to his older brother than he'd killed a man would be the thing that caused Shori to back off and finally see him as a man, when he'd been engaging in adult behaviors like drinking and smoking, and steadily growing older all the while. He thought it must be because Shori would look at him and still see innocence. The revelation of murder came as a shock, but it also served as a sign of changing times—and perhaps his reaction to it was what eventually convinced Shori of his maturity.

Yuuri missed the understanding and support as soon as it was gone. Of course he received the same from Conrad, but it was different with Shori, if only because they'd known one another their whole lives. They grew and changed together. They became Kings _together_. He could depend on Shori to give an honest response where the others might continue to shield him.

But Shori and Earth were behind him now, and he was on his own.

He trusted his councilors. There wasn't any doubt in his mind about that. Gwendal and Gunter had proven themselves time and again. They worked tirelessly for him, and for the country. Conrad was no different, though he dedicated himself to Yuuri's wellbeing more than he did the Kingdom's. Yuuri trusted them to see to his best interests. He trusted them to run the country effectively during his absences, brief as they were these days.

They were different than Shori because they withheld information when they thought it was advisable. They schooled their reactions and kept their thoughts to themselves when they assumed what they had to say would upset him. Even now they coddled him, handled him with kid gloves despite their insistence that he was well enough to handle things on his own. They looked at him like they might lose him if one more tragedy should occur. They saw him as their better, and supported him as someone inferior was meant to support their betters.

Shori, like Murata, saw him as an equal.

Dripping wet and shivering, Yuuri left the royal bath and made his way to the royal bedchamber for a change of clothes. He paused at the door for a moment, leaned his forehead against the wood and listened to the sounds from within—quiet voices talking, the crash and clatter of toys being thrown about.

He opened the door quietly, cautious of the creaky hinges, and peered in on the scene that greeted him. His stomach dropped almost immediately, his heart jumping not with joy to see his family, but with grief.

There was Lady Celi holding Wolfram upright, guiding him along as he stumbled across the floor, holding onto his hands like they would hold onto Merry's when the baby toddled around. Wolfram's expression was strained, obviously frustrated by his recent handicaps, though his eyes looked distant. Once so full of emotion, now Wolfram's eyes looked dead and hollow.

It broke Yuuri's heart.

"See? You're doing better already," Lady Celi said encouragingly.

Wolfram grumbled a response and tripped on one of Merry's blocks. Lady Celi wrapped an arm around him and held him steady.

"I can't _see_ at all, Mother," he snapped at her.

Lady Celi took it in stride, meeting his frustrations with a loving smile. "You're doing fine," she said. "It was only one of Merry's toys. Keep going. The more you try, the more you'll get the hang of it."

"There's no point. My legs are useless now."

"Not useless, Wolfram. You can still stand. The only way you'll never walk on your own again is if you give up trying."

Wolfram grumbled again, but allowed her to guide him a few more steps.

Yuuri couldn't bear to watch.

It wasn't often that he could force himself to face Wolfram these days. He didn't know what to say to him, or how to help him. The only thing he knew how to do was bring the people responsible to justice. He couldn't stomach the thought that Wolfram had been rendered helpless when in all the time Yuuri had known him Wolfram proved himself to be anything but.

Yuuri wanted to see the determination on Wolfram's face and the fire in his eyes again. He didn't want to see him broken and vulnerable.

He turned his eyes away instead and looked at Merry, sitting upon a blanket on the floor with Greta, bouncing in place as he shook another one of his blocks around. Only Merry remained unchanged, the only one of them too young to understand the terrible situation they now found themselves in. Yuuri envied Merry his ignorance, wished he could go back to being young and naïve, when trust had been easy and betrayal seemed like such a foreign word.

He watched a grin spread across Merry's face, and realized what Merry was about to do two seconds too late. Merry released the block he was holding, flinging it in Wolfram's direction.

Yuuri's reaction was, perhaps, an _over_-reaction. Wolfram gave a start and stumbled when the block hit his shin, but it was obvious by the look on his face that he knew what it was. He didn't seem bothered by it in the least, familiar as he was with Merry's behavior. Yuuri, on the other hand, had spent weeks attempting to rein in a shortened temper; he didn't see Merry's behavior as the innocent action in was. Protectiveness and anger flared up before he could put a damper on them.

It was sudden and uncharacteristic, but the warning bells going off in his head were too late.

"_Merry_!"

The voice that barked at his adopted son didn't sound like his own, yet the word registered in his mind and his mouth made the proper movements.

Each of the four figures gave a start. Merry's head whipped around to stare with widened eyes and a gaping mouth, suddenly still under Yuuri's harsh gaze. Greta jolted in place, brought a hand to her chest like her heart had gone wild at the sudden interruption, and looked to Yuuri with an expression of confusion laced with concern. Lady Celi fumbled in her attempts to guide Wolfram around the room and had to catch him quickly before he fell.

Wolfram, of course, without the benefit of sight, had the worst reaction. He nearly jumped out of his skin, tripped again and almost tumbled to the floor before Lady Celi managed to haul him back up. His face went pale and his breathing quickly grew erratic. Yuuri saw Wolfram's mouth and throat work as he swallowed, struggling to overcome the surprise.

"Yuuri?" Wolfram said.

But Yuuri was focused on the baby, whose hand was already sneaking toward another block.

"_Merry_," Yuuri said again. The baby stilled, his eyes growing even wider. "You don't throw things."

Something in the sound of his voice must have gotten across, because Merry dropped the block and whimpered. His little face crumpled as if he'd been slapped. Big fat tears collected in his bright eyes.

Greta reached out for Merry when he started to cry. Merry went to her willingly, hiding his devastation against her shoulder.

"Yuuri," Wolfram tried again. "Yuuri, it's alright. It was an accident."

"It wasn't an accident, Wolf."

"He didn't mean anything by it. He's a baby, Yuuri, he doesn't know any better."

"Then I'll teach him to know better."

Wolfram shook his head and took a few unsteady steps in Yuuri's direction. He stumbled and clung to Lady Celi all the way, his weak legs struggling to support him in his endeavor to cross the room. He didn't quite manage to make it there in a straight line; Lady Celi had to guide him in the right direction.

It broke Yuuri's heart to see Wolfram reaching out for him before he was even close enough to touch. It made him feel guilty and hopeless to watch Wolfram's feet trip and drag along the floor when he once would have glided so gracefully. Wolfram looked ill, thin and deathly pale; his nightgown hung off one shoulder, where the bone protruded noticeably. His hair had not been washed that day, but was gathered at the nape of his neck into a loose tail. Rather than its usual waves and sprightly curls, Wolfram's hair hung straight and limp.

This was not how Wolfram should look, Yuuri thought. Wolfram would never allow himself to become so unkept. Wolfram rarely even let Yuuri see him when he was anything less than perfect. Everything about the image that faced him now was wrong, from the hair to the too thin body, from the struggling legs and the hands that trembled uncontrollably.

"Yuuri, please, it's alright," Wolfram said. One of his hands separated from his mother to grasp loosely onto the fabric of Yuuri's jacket.

Yuuri took him by the waist to steady him. Lady Celi released her hold on her son and took a step back, staring at them both with pity in her eyes.

Yuuri hated it. It didn't matter that she directed it toward him, but she should never have to look at Wolfram like that.

"Where have you been?" Wolfram asked. His voice was quiet. His lips looked chapped, his brow creased above eyes that stared somewhere beyond Yuuri's shoulder.

Yuuri swallowed down the pain and heaved Wolfram up until he rested more firmly on his feet. "I've been busy," he said uselessly.

"You're soaked," Wolfram observed.

"Took Shori back to Earth."

"You sound tired," Wolfram said. "You should rest."

"There's too much work to be done," Yuuri said. His voice sounded short, reprimanding. It was not what he'd meant at all, but Wolfram would not be able to see the guilt that washed across his face.

Wolfram flinched. His shoulders curled inward as he sagged in Yuuri's arms.

"I'm sorry," Yuuri was quick to apologize. "Wolf, I didn't mean—"

"You've been avoiding me," Wolfram said.

"No, Wolf, I—"

"Does it pain you so much to look at me this way?"

"Wolf..."

"You don't have to say anything," Wolfram told him. His grip on Yuuri's jacket tightened a fraction. His usually smooth voice sounded strained. "I can hardly bear the thought of what I must look like. I certainly don't blame you."

The sadness in Wolfram's voice touched on the grief and love in Yuuri's heart. Yuuri gathered him closer and wrapped both arms around him, holding Wolfram to his chest. A hand rose to guide Wolfram's head down onto his shoulder.

He held Wolfram tightly, pressed a kiss to his unwashed hair, shut his eyes to all the rest and waded through the guilt. He found relief on the other side—grateful that Wolfram had been spared worse. Wolfram was changed; he could not see, he could not walk without assistance, his hands shook whenever his emotions grew too strong. But in the ways that were most important, Wolfram remained the same.

There were shreds of his pride that remained intact. His belief in Yuuri, his love for his family, his stubbornness, his protectiveness, all of those things were still there beneath the sadness and the disappointment. It was those things that would allow Wolfram to recover.

Wolfram may never return to the sprightly youth he'd been before, but he lived and breathed and retained those traits Yuuri had fallen for in the first place.

It Wolfram could no longer stand by him as often, if Wolfram could not longer protect him the way he used to, it was up to Yuuri to learn to stand on his own—to be the sort of King Wolfram had always encouraged him to be.

"I love you," Yuuri said into Wolfram's hair. His throat tightened and his voice grew quiet.

"I know," Wolfram said.

"You _should_ blame me," Yuuri told him.

"I blame the ones responsible."

"I should be here with you."

"And neglect the Kingdom?"

Yuuri knew it took a lot for Wolfram to remind him of that. He knew Wolfram wanted nothing more than to have him there. He'd been told as much over the last few weeks—how miserable Wolfram was, how often Wolfram pined for him, how bitter and lonely he sounded, how even a short visit would do wonders for Wolfram's mood, for his recovery.

"I'm so afraid for you," Yuuri said.

Lady Celi backed away and kindly left them to themselves. She went to the blanket spread over the floor and engaged Greta in conversation, so that Yuuri and Wolfram might have a small bit of privacy.

"And I'm _so_ angry."

"I know," Wolfram said. His hands smoothed over Yuuri's back.

"I don't know what to do," Yuuri said.

Wolfram didn't answer. It was likely he didn't even know what to say.

And how could he? Yuuri imagined Wolfram was as conflicted as he felt himself, with his hatred and annoyance toward the Aristocrats pitted against his support for Yuuri's peaceful measures. There was not a doubt in Yuuri's mind that Wolfram wanted vengeance for what had been done to him.

Yuuri planned to give it to him, but he'd not yet worked out how.

"Do what you think is right," Wolfram said.

It was a difficult statement to answer.

Before, he would have come up with some naïve response, trusting as he was in the good in everyone. Slowly, over the passing of time, Yuuri learned how foolish he had been. Trust was not something to be given, but something to be earned. It could be offered for a time, and just as quickly taken away.

It was a harsh lesson. It meant reevaluating everything he'd ever believed in. Everything he'd once thought true of people would have to be replaced with harsh reality.

Everything he'd believed of the world had changed, and Yuuri no longer knew the difference between what was right and just, and what was wrong.

* * *

><p>"Eat."<p>

The room was lit by fire and candlelight.

Parted window curtains opened the room to the gray gloom of the outdoors, and the sad, barren garden below. An early winter's frost glistened upon the ground beneath a pale sun, freezing what life remained from an autumn come to a premature end. What remained lay dormant, leaving Isidore with nothing more than a cold, desolate landscape. It was empty and lifeless, a depressing sight for all those who yearned for more.

Certainly it was depressing to Lyron, whose thoughts remained always with the Great Demon Kingdom. Within its borders one could find fertile soils and prized land. There the rivers flowed freely, and the sun shined golden upon the earth; the colors of the harvest were vibrant—reds, oranges, and yellows to outshine Isidore's dreary brown.

"I apologize, Your Majesty. I am feeling unwell."

Within his privy chamber Lyron sat at the head of a large table. Along the length of the table was enough food and drink to feed a family of five for a week. Lyron took the choice portions for himself and left the rest for his companion. At the opposite end of the table sat his wife, Bryndis. Her eyes of blue-green were downcast upon the polished wood of the table, her platinum hair twisted back and bound out of her face.

For a partner, she was by no means his first choice; indeed, the portrait which hung upon the wall at Bryndis's back demonstrated exactly where Lyron's preferences lied. But the laws of the land deemed that he must take a wife, and so a wife he took. In that respect, Bryndis was suitable. Quiet and obedient, she argued little and raised no objections to his habit of seeking a majority of his pleasures with other men.

Yet he would never be entirely satisfied with her, lovely as she was. Against the emerald fire and golden light of Prince Wolfram's portrait, Bryndis appeared ghostly pale and meek.

"Then you may leave," Lyron said. He did not look up at her. "Return to your rooms."

Bryndis stood to her feet with hardly a sound, just the quiet slide of her chair legs against the carpet and the subtle shifting of the fabric of her dress. In his peripheral vision Lyron could see her step behind her chair and slide it back beneath the table, her eyes lowered submissively. Then she stood there, waiting.

"I have already dismissed you," Lyron said, impatient.

"Do you not wish to know why?" Bryndis said.

She did not shake or quaver with fear as one might expect of someone so docile in the presence of a man of Lyron's reputation. She did not dare to meet his eye, but Lyron knew it was more a show of propriety than it was a show of unease.

"If you have something to say, I command you to speak," Lyron said.

He was looking over her shoulder, his eyes locked on the portrait on the wall, his thoughts thousands of miles away, and so he missed the small smile that curved her lips.

"I am with child," she said.

It took a moment to register, to filter through his fantasies and take root in his brain. When it did, Lyron was able to tear his gaze away and look upon his wife. She did not return his look, but continued to stare down as if examining her feet. Yet she seemed pleased. If it was not the meek little smile, it was the very energy that surrounded her.

She had done her duty to him. It had been years since their marriage; finally, the unpleasant nights spent in her bed had paid off.

"Are you certain?" he asked.

Bryndis nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty. I have missed two of my courses and—"

Lyron raised a hand to stop her. Bryndis quieted immediately. She held her hands clasped in front of her. They rested over her belly, which did not yet show any sign of growth.

Lyron removed his napkin from his lap to drop it upon the table. He then rose from his chair and walked slowly to the opposite end, where he took Bryndis by one arm and brought a hand to her chin, tilting her face up so that he might look into her eyes. She obeyed, the smallest of smiles still in place.

"You have done well," he told her.

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

"I expect I need not tell you to have a care for your health and well-being. You must not exert yourself, Bryndis, or place your body under undue stress. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," she said. "You have my word."

Lyron smiled. His hand moved from Bryndis's chin to cup the side of her face. His lips descended upon her forehead with a subtle fondness.

"I sense the tides are changing," he said.

He placed a hand upon his wife's flat belly, looked beyond her shoulder to the portrait on the wall, and knew himself to be one step closer to having everything he desired in his grasp.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

><p>Dawn had not yet arrived when Louisa Lancaster rose from bed to begin the day.<p>

She descended the creaky stairs into the living area below, wrapping herself in a threadbare robe, heavily patched and riddled with holes where it was not. Old Samson, the dog, lay by the hearth, where a fire burned low. He awoke when Louisa drew closer, stretched haltingly, and rose on arthritic legs to circle around and wait for food. He was a good dog, and had been with the family for over a decade, long before her youngest son had been born.

Louisa stoked the fire and bustled about to make the breakfast pottage. When she had the vegetables and grains in the pot, she set it over the fire to boil and fed the remaining scraps to Samson. She sat in a rickety chair to absorb the fire's warmth, pulled a basketful of cloth beside her, and began to work on some of the mending.

One by one the family awoke. Martin, her husband, came clomping down the stairs in his heavy work boots. He dropped a kiss onto Louisa's head, scratched Samson behind the ears, and went out with the dog to begin his harvest work. Marty, her oldest son, and named for his father, followed only a short while later. He, too, gave a quick greeting before joining his father in the nearby fields.

Cecilia, her oldest daughter, named for the former Queen, came down with the youngest three. Adelaide scaled the stairs unassisted; Margret, still unsteady on her feet, held one of Cecilia's hands; and little Yuuri, named for His Majesty the King, was carried on Cecilia's hip, having only just learned to crawl.

"Good morning, Mother," Cecilia greeted her. She set Yuuri on the floor by a basket of toys.

"Morning, Mother," Adelaide and Margret chirped.

"Good morning, children," Louisa said. She stroked Margret's hair as she passed by on her way to join Yuuri near the basket of toys.

They settled quickly. Margret and Yuuri played quietly amongst themselves, and Cecilia and Adelaide joined Louisa by the fire, pulling out their own needles and thread to assist her with the mending.

Dawn was slow to approach. Beyond the window the sky remained dark and strewn with stars. The distant village was only just beginning to rouse. It was, for all intents and purposes, an ordinary morning. Quiet, peaceful.

Until the dog began to bark.

Louisa paused in her sewing to listen. Martin shushed the dog, but Samson kept barking. Soon, Louisa could hear why.

Horses making a fast approach, their hooves thundering against the ground.

Strange, Louisa though. They were not expecting any visitors, and it wasn't often such a large party made their way through the area. Their farm and the village beyond were in a remote part of the Kingdom, close to the border between the Great Demon Kingdom and Cimaron, but the way was blocked by impassable mountains.

Theirs was a calm, safe community, the sort of place where everyone knew everyone else, and the whole community came together to assist others in their time of need. Even during the war, the town had gone unscathed and marginally unaffected, but for the loss of a few young men intent on joining the fight.

The sound of hooves stopped when they arrived upon their property. Samson continued to bark; he sounded protective, with the energy of a much younger dog.

Louisa eyed the girls to observe their confused faces. She set her mending to the side, rose to her feet, and left the girls to continue as she made her way to the front door.

She heard a growl, a shout and a cry, and then three solid thumps against the ground.

She knew the cause when she opened the door.

There Martin and Marty lie with their throats cut, vacant eyes staring up at her. Samson's body was in a heap nearby, his head severed from his neck.

"Pardon the intrusion," said a foreign voice.

Above the bodies of her husband and oldest son stood a young man with ashen hair and cold green eyes. He held a blooded sword in one hand, and his entire frame was draped in black.

He smiled wickedly—a look that was at odds with his handsome countenance, like some vengeful angel of death.

Louisa's scream split the air as she retreated back into the house.

It was, of course, much too late for that.

* * *

><p>The King was such a simple man to manipulate.<p>

If she but widened her eyes just so, adopted an expression of open innocence, or spoke with reverence accompanied by thinly veiled interest, his suspicions melted away and he looked at her with such guilt and sadness.

Elise was not so self-involved as to think he felt any sort of attraction toward her. Rather, he pitied her, that she should become swallowed up in her father's plans, that fate should necessitate that she answer for her father's crimes. As weeks passed, and the crisp autumn months swiftly gave way to a winter chill, she watched the look in his eye change. Steadily his expression shifted from guarded and suspicious to something that was by no means fond, but certainly he grew sympathetic and indulgent when she proved herself of no threat to him.

He permitted her to leave her room more often, instructed the maids not only to bring her meals, but whatever else she might desire that couldn't be used for harm. He spoke to her not with resentment or distrust, but with a growing warmth and kindness that was more in tune with his true nature.

He was entirely inexperienced in the ways of a deceptive woman. He saw nothing in her behavior that should pose a threat to him, and with her frequent apologies and overwhelming show of deference, he began to see her not as the daughter of a traitor, but as another one of her father's victims.

Elise let him believe it. Certainly it made her conditions more tolerable, and allowed her to weave her own web of deceit.

She knew not where her father was, or how close His Majesty's councilors may be to finding him, but she could pick up where her father left off. Of course, she had no interest in seeing the Prince dead. That was her father's ambition, not hers. Prince Wolfram meant nothing to her; he was but an annoyance, and one of no consequence now that he was confined to bed. But driving a wedge between Prince Wolfram and the King was certainly something she desired. Her methods were simply of a more subtle kind.

She knocked upon the door to His Majesty's office, accompanied as she always was when she left her room by an armed guard. A tired voice from within bid that she enter. Elise took the handle and opened the door slowly, peering in before crossing through.

His Majesty sat behind his desk with stacks of paperwork before him, most of which had likely built up while his attention had been focused on interrogations and hunting down her father. He sorted through them with an expression on his face that seemed to lack any real interest, as if he were simply going through the motions. He looked tired and drawn. His shoulders slumped, his back hunched, and beneath his eyes were a set of dark smudges, as if he'd not slept in days.

A blanket on the settee seemed to corroborate the evidence. Surely if he wasn't lacking in sleep what few hours he _did _manage were not entirely restful. Even in her confinement, rumors came to Elise by way of the maids. It seemed not all of them were false. Perhaps the King was unable to face his crippled Prince after all.

"Your Majesty," she greeted him. She fell into a low curtsy and held it until he commanded her to rise.

"That's not necessary, Lady von Mannheim," he told her. He shuffled some of his papers aside and made a motion with one of his hands toward the guard who accompanied her. "It's alright. Take your post outside the door."

Elise kept herself lowered long enough to hide her grin. She waited until the door closed behind the departing guard before rising again and looking toward the King. She was careful not to meet his eye, but kept her head lowered slightly as a sign of respect.

"Is something wrong?" he asked her—not entirely concerned, but sympathetic nonetheless.

The King had a goblet of wine close at hand. He grasped it and brought it to his mouth, took a healthy swallow as if he needed the wine to fortify himself.

After what happened to the Prince one would think the King would become somewhat more cautious around wine. Instead, it appeared as if he'd come to rely on it all the more. Elise suspected it was another one of his many bids to escape, like his reliance on the Demon King or those silly Earthen things the maids said he took to smoking when he was stressed.

"No, Your Majesty," she said. "I but wished to speak with you about my father."

Though she kept her eyes lowered, Elise nevertheless knew when the King's mouth dipped into a frown.

"What about him?" he asked.

There was a restrained hostility to his voice that sent a shiver down her back. His tone was not as deep as it was when he slipped into his more powerful consciousness, but certainly his voice was edging toward it.

With nothing to do confined in her rooms all day but read books she'd already read years go, or write letters she was sure no one would ever read, Elise took to envisioning the King as she'd seen him during her interrogation. That was the sort of King she could grow to respect—one who maintained control when necessary, but who knew when it was best to exert his strength; the sort none could argue against and few would want to.

The King had it in him to be that man. He only needed to be guided in the right direction.

"I was..." Elise began, hesitated, and made to swallow as if it was painful for her to speak of such things. "I wished to know if there was any word as to his whereabouts."

The King sat back in his chair. He brought his drink with him and swirled the contents around in his goblet.

"Nothing we can prove," he said, and took another swallow.

"I apologize, Your Majesty. I don't understand your meaning."

"Before Lord Eckhart was killed, he implied that your father meant to head toward Small Cimaron and place himself at the mercy of King Saralegui."

"Lord Eckhart is dead?"

She'd expected as much, though the maids would grow quiet around her when the subject came up amidst their gossip. It did not surprise her, though she made a show of appearing shocked. Eckhart was foolishly loyal to her father.

"You didn't know?" the King asked.

"No, Your Majesty, no one speaks of these things," Elise said. "I only ever hear of my father's activities from you."

"That's probably for the best," he said. He didn't follow with an explanation as to why.

"What does my father hope to accomplish by putting himself before His Majesty Saralegui? Small Cimaron has been under Big Cimaron's control for the last five years. I was not under the impression that Varick meant to relinquish his authority."

"I've stopped trying to guess what your father means by anything."

There was that hostility again, that unconstrained bitterness slowly giving way to a growing hate. Elise would have felt sorry for her father had he not brought it upon himself. Instead, she felt desire burn low in her belly.

The King was not an unattractive man. On the contrary, there was certainly something pleasing about his foreign looks. His eyes were particularly alluring—so dark, and so commanding in his recent mood. Should she risk meeting his gaze she knew that she would be unable to look away. When filled with compassion, those eyes bore no hold on her, but when overcome with impatience and outrage as they were, they sparked a heat within her she would not have expected to feel for a man of his genial reputation.

Taller and broader than he'd been as a boy, the King's build was more akin to Lord Weller's these days than it was to his adolescent Prince's. Even so, there remained something decidedly boyish about his looks, though that youthful demeanor came and went with his moods. This was not a child too inexperienced for the throne, but a man who'd grown into it—perhaps not comfortably, but by necessity all the same.

"Believe me when I say that if I could deliver my father to you," Elise said, "I would do so."

It was a lie, but the genuineness in her voice seemed to convince him otherwise. He looked up at her in surprise and gaped at her show of loyalty.

"You're his daughter," the King said.

"My father has committed treason," she replied. "There is nothing I could hope to do to save him from his fate. He would bring our family less shame if he were to face the consequences of his actions with dignity, rather than flee and consort with a foreign king."

The King observed her for a moment, not calculating so much as he was taken aback.

"Do you know anything about Saralegui?" he asked.

Elise shook her head. "No, Your Majesty. I know only that he has been King since he was young."

"Young like I was?"

"Younger, I believe. The previous King of Small Cimaron passed when His Majesty Saralegui was a boy, years before Your Majesty arrived in this land."

"I see..."

Whatever he saw was lost to Elise. She suspected the King was merely searching for something to say. He brought his goblet to his mouth but pulled it away when he realized that it was empty. He frowned into it, swirled it about like he meant to collect what last few drops remained. When that yielded no better results, he rose from his seat and turned for a small table near the settee, where a decanter of red wine sat waiting.

Elise dipped a low curtsy and made a cautious approach. "Allow me, Your Majesty," she said.

He stared at her like he meant to argue. There was conflict in his eyes—he did not entirely trust her, but he felt guilty for suspecting her of anything when she'd given him little reason to believe she was up to anything nefarious.

For her part, Elise kept her expression demure even as she found herself amused by his indecision.

"I understand if you would rather I didn't," she said.

She watched as he swallowed down his guilt. Eventually he shook his head and held the goblet out to her.

"Thank you," he said.

Elise bowed her head in deference and took the goblet with ready hands. Her walk to the side table was slow and deliberate, as if she meant to prove to him that he had nothing to fear.

From the corner of her eye she watched as the King retook his seat behind the desk. He watched her for a few moments, before he shook his head again and lowered his gaze to his paperwork. He returned to sorting through it with a stubbornness that would have drawn a low chuckle from Elise were she not so concerned with acting her most unassuming. He forced negligence as if he meant to prove his trust in her.

He was a foolish man to do so. Her father's duplicity should have taught him better.

Trust no one, he would learn, even those who showed themselves to be trustworthy.

She kept the goblet and decanter within his view as she poured the wine to show that he had nothing to fear from her. He refused to watch and kept his eyes focused on his paperwork, though he did nothing more than shuffle a few documents and rearrange the piles.

Elise maintained her slow, cautious pace. She flicked her gaze quickly in the King's direction, but he did not return the look. She smiled to herself for just a moment, a small, victorious little thing that might have served as a warning to him if he weren't so determined not to suspect her.

On the middle finger of her right hand sat a large ring with a thick band of gold into which was set a sizable ruby. Quickly, she flicked the stone with her thumb. It opened on small, indiscernible hinges like those one might find on a locket. Within, in the miniscule compartment it concealed, with a thin powder, pale lavender in color and carrying the faint scent of wildflowers. Elise tipped the powder into the wine goblet without the King being any the wiser. Then she closed the ring as quickly as she'd opened it, and brought the goblet back to the King's desk.

She curtsied again. Her eyes remained lowered.

The King mumbled his thanks and took the goblet, looked into the dark red wine as he swirled the contents around. Hastily he brought it to his mouth and took a large swallow. It was as if he did not wish to give himself a moment to think of what he was doing.

"Thank you," he said again once he seemed satisfied that his trust had not been misplaced.

Elise only smiled gently and said nothing in response.

For a while all was quiet between them. The King continued to peruse his paperwork while taking the occasional gulp of wine, and Elise stood passively by as if there were no greater joy in her life than to be in the King's presence.

To herself, Elise thought him a simpleton. She almost thought better of her plan, not for her own sake but for the sudden burst of annoyance that filled her as the King went on innocently drinking his wine. Her desire waned a bit, but she rallied quickly. If he was gullible enough not to suspect anything, it was just as much as he deserved.

"He is more popular than Varick," she said.

The King gave a start at the suddenness of her voice. He looked up from his papers and blinked at her slowly.

"What?" he asked. The look of confusion he gave her was obvious.

"His Majesty Saralegui," she explain. "He was always more popular than Varick, or so my father led me to believe when Varick assumed the throne of Cimaron."

"Saralegui doesn't have any ties to the throne of Cimaron," the King said as if he were reciting a line fed to him by someone else.

It seemed he was so intent upon keeping up his alliance with Varick that he was willing to ignore the fact that his new ally still had another Kingdom under his control.

"His Majesty Saralegui is King of Small Cimaron."

"Cimaron is one country again."

"Then does His Majesty Saralegui not have as much right to the throne of Cimaron as Varick?"

The King shook his head, not in denial, but as if he were trying to clear it.

"You say Saralegui's name with respect but don't even refer to Varick by his title," he was aware enough to point out.

Elise widened her eyes and lowered her head with a shame she didn't feel. "I apologize, Your Majesty," she said. "I... for a moment I forgot myself. I was simply repeating what my father once said."

"There's a lot about your father I don't know, isn't there? So he respects Saralegui more than Varick?"

"I cannot say, Your Majesty. He was never quite so blunt as to tell me that."

"Do you think he means to get more than protection from Saralegui?"

The more he drank, the lower His Majesty's voice fell. He slurred a few of his words together, not as if he was drunk but as if overcome by fatigue. His eyes took on a glassy sheen, his pupils widening in the candlelight.

"Are you asking if my father means to acquire His Majesty Saralegui's support in rebellion?" Elise said.

"I'm asking what he could possibly hope to accomplish by fleeing to another Kingdom," the King explained. "Wasn't his poisoning Wolfram enough of a betrayal? I trusted him, but he spat on that as if it didn't matter."

"Your Majesty, my father—"

"You'll see your father dead if he's not careful!"

He snapped at her with some of that repressed hostility rising into his voice. Though Elise remained unaffected by his tone, she nevertheless permitted him to see her flinch. She hunched her shoulders as she took a step back, and stared sadly toward the floor.

The King was quick to regain himself. He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, brought a hand to his forehead as if to combat a headache or a sudden dizzy spell.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That was uncalled for. I don't know what came over me."

"You've no need to apologize, Your Majesty."

"No, I do. You're right. You're not your father. You shouldn't have to answer for his crimes."

"Someone must," she said.

"_He_ will. He'll pay for everything he's done. For... for hurting Wolfram, and... for betraying me. For leaving your to pay the price for it..."

"Your Majesty...?"

He shook his head again. This time there was a measure of frustration in the motion.

"No, it's alright," he said. "I'm... I'm fine. Just... I'm sorry, it's been... I haven't slept well. It's been a long day."

"Perhaps you should rest."

He nodded, rose from his chair, tripped on his own feet as he rounded the desk.

Elise placed herself before him and caught him as he stumbled, her arms easily sliding beneath his to assist him in remaining upright. She nearly unbalanced under the added weight but managed to keep herself steady. Soon enough the King pulled back, his face flushed from the drink as much as it was from embarrassment. Elise kept her arms around him in case he should stumble again. She stared at him with kindness in her eyes and a bemused upturn to her lips.

"I'm sorry," he said in a rush. "Sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me. Must be... too much wine..."

A hazy look came over him then, like he was trying to determine something but couldn't string his thoughts together. Elise wondered if there was a part of his that was growing suspicious. Certainly he gazed into her eyes like he was attempting to find something there, leaning close and staring deeply as if the added proximity would help him sort things out.

If he meant to accuse her of anything, nothing of the sort was said. Instead, he mumbled, "You smell... nice..."

Elise wished she could force a blush. Instead she showed him a shy smile and said, "My perfume, Your Majesty."

"No..." he said, and shook his head slowly. "No, it smells like... I remember... it smells like the bath..."

She'd no idea what he was talking about but decided it was of no concern. He leaned back further and made to pull away from her, but tripped again and fell right back against her. Elise cleverly maneuvered herself; when he crashed into her, her head was at the perfect angle for their lips to meet in a clumsy kiss.

The King groaned, but Elise could not determine if the sound was one of distress or pleasure. It mattered not to her. She pressed her lips to his with forced hesitation, her arms tightening around him just so. Her eyes fluttered closed as she sighed through her nose and released a quiet moan.

He tore his mouth away with some effort, staring at her with dark, wide, glazed-over eyes.

"Your Majesty," she said. Her voice was appropriately breathless.

"I..." he stuttered. "I don't... I'm... I'm sorry, I..."

"Your Majesty," she said again. She brought a comforting hand to the side of his face. "It's alright."

"No," he shook his head rapidly. "No, it's not. I'm sorry."

"You've no need to apologize."

She tilted her head again and captured his lips with her own. He released another frustrated groan, but his lips moved against hers and his hands gripped her waist—half as if he meant to steady himself, half as if he meant to push her away. Elise did not allow him to. She slid her arms out from beneath his and threw them around his neck instead, pressing her body to his own.

His mouth opened on a gasp and she slipped her tongue inside. It was a messy, unpracticed kiss that should have revolted her, but under the circumstances it hardly gave her cause for discomfort. Against her hip she felt the hardness of his manhood straining against the front of his pants. With the combination of enticing perfume and tampered wine, the King was quick to arousal. Elise was just as quick to take advantage.

She moaned into his mouth and slipped a leg between his. He rocked against her thigh with a tortured look upon his face.

The King turned his head, his lips brushing her cheek as he said, "N-No... Wolfram..."

Elise ignored his protestations. With her arms around his neck she began to lead him back toward the settee.

"I understand, Your Majesty," she said. "I'll not speak of this to anyone."

"But..."

"Shhh. No one will know."

"But... Elise..." he shook head head and corrected himself, "Lady... Mannheim..."

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"This is... I don't... I don't know what..."

"Shhh," she shushed him again. She brought her lips back to his and kissed him lightly.

Elise stumbled when the back of her legs hit the settee. She fell onto the plush cushions, dragging the King down with her. He landed between her splayed legs and moaned, thrusting his pelvis against hers on instinct more than desire.

Oh, there was desire there, of course. She could feel the hard length of him pressing insistently into the crease where hip met thigh. It was that he had someone else in mind as he thrust against her and moaned into the side of her neck. Elise had expected as much; there would be no hope in turning his thoughts away from Prince Wolfram while Prince Wolfram remained alive.

It made no difference to her what the King thought about. If he happened to moan Prince Wolfram's name into her hair, so be it. It was all the same to her. Elise had no intention of pretending that this was more than it was. She wanted no love from the King. She cared not for his feelings for her. She wanted him sympathetic to her plight; she wanted him conflicted. The further she submitted to him, the less likely he would be to harm her.

"Your Majesty," she breathed.

She adjusted their positions, lied back on the settee and pulled him on top of her.

His mouth was on her again, and this time she could not tell who initiated the kiss. It could have just as easily been either one of them. The King was lost to his desires, wading through a haze of confusion. She thought it unlikely he could even see her clearly. He could only feel.

Elise arched into him, gripped at his shoulders and slid a hand into his hair, pressing her fingertips into his scalp and encouraging his mouth down to her neck. She slipped a hand between them and reached for his pants. He gasped when she cupped him and thrust against her palm.

"Wait wait wait," he said. He shook his head like he meant to force the haze away, but it did nothing more than make him sway unsteadily. "Wolfram..."

"It's alright," she whispered. "It's alright."

She didn't give him the opportunity to say anything else. She caught his mouth with her own at the same time she unfastened his pants and took him into her hand. The King groaned loudly. One of his hands came to her face, but the way he grasped it did not feel like a loving caress. It was rough and possessive. His other hand pressed into the settee to brace himself above her.

Elise hiked up her own dress, untied her undergarments, and spread her legs further to take him in when she pulled him forward.

There was no hesitation; she was no innocent virgin. The King likewise, for as soon as his manhood was encased within her, surrounded by damp and warmth, his hips pressed forward with abandon. He road her roughly, lost to whatever delusion the drink had brought to mind, his face buried into her neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her perfume.

Vaguely she wondered if this was how it was with Prince Wolfram, if the King lost himself so completely he was beyond all measure of control. His thrusts were hard and fast, a sharp snap of his pelvis that sent her head back as pleasure pooled low and spread within her. It was as if he meant to race toward the finish rather than take his time. Elise had no way of knowing if that was normal, or if there was a part of him that realized what was happening and wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

"Wolfram..." he panted. His voice broke on a moan that sounded half pained. "_Wolfram_... No, no, Wolfram..."

Elise ignored him. She cared not for what he thought, or whose name he chose to utter. She was not doing this to earn his love, but to break it.

Once, she balked at her father's suggestions, at the insinuation that she find a way between Prince Wolfram and the King. His plans were hardly foolproof; he'd proven that with his reckless attempts at poison. There would be no promises and no guarantees. It was a risk with a heavy price attached to it. Once, she'd not been willing to pay it.

But on her own, distrusted and accused, confined to her room for most of the day with only the maids and an occasional visit from the King for company, she realized that she must take drastic measures to secure her place. The King's trust brought her little comfort when his councilors insisted he tread carefully around her. She did not want his trust, but his guilt. She wanted him at her mercy. She wanted him to look at her with loss and confusion in his eyes, with the fear and dread of what may happen should this encounter ever come to light.

Perhaps it was not all that her father intended, but with him gone it should be enough.

The King's already rapid pace quickened as he drew closer to his climax. He bit at her neck, left bruises on her skin, clung to her like he could put off the inevitable if he could only pull her into him.

It was a foolish thought. He came with a stuttered gasp followed by a long, low groan.

His thrusts slowed and his movements became lethargic. He breathed raggedly against her neck, his face flushed, his eyes closed, blind to what he'd done. Elise thought it likely he didn't even realize what was happening. His mind was elsewhere, temporarily disconnected from a body he was unable to control.

He collapsed against her. His softening manhood slipped out of her when his body shifted. The King put his head to her shoulder, gasped for breath until the beating of his heart slowed. Then he moaned his exhaustion. His body grew heavy. Soon he fell into a fitful sleep, mumbling as half-consciousness slipped away from him.

"Wolfram..."

Elise snorted at the pitiful sound of his voice. She smirked and made herself comfortable against the settee.

She looked forward to morning.

**TBC...**


	7. Chapter Seven: Silence

**Disclaimer: ** I do not own Kyou Kara Maou or any of its characters. All of the original characters were, however, created by me.

**Beta-ed by: **G, whose support through all these years will forever be appreciated.

**Warnings:** Language, violence, general dark/adult themes, angst, sexual content, sexual content of dubious consent/non-consensual sex, blood, torture, and OC!character death.

**Pairings:** Yuuri/Wolfram. Other side pairings will be mentioned, including Murata/Elizabeth and Lyron/Wolfram.

**Setting: **Seven years post Season 2. Three years after the events of _Love and War_. Yuuri is 23, Wolfram is 89 (17), and Greta is 18. As with _Love and War_, please ignore all OVAs as well as the entirety of Season 3.

**Rating: **M

**A/N:** I apologize for the delay in getting this chapter out! I have this story planned out from beginning to end but sometimes it's still difficult to find the words. I'm still not happy with my writing style. This chapter in particular feels a little short ands tilted to me. I apologize for that as well.

Like, sometimes I read my stuff and just bash my head against the desk because seriously how much more awful can it get?

* * *

><p><em><strong>Between Kings<strong>_

by Mikage

**Chapter Seven – _Silence_**

Yuuri awoke to a splitting headache.

Of three things he was certain as he slipped back into consciousness. First, that he had passed the night in his office. The couch was firm against his back. He felt cramped, for it was not as spacious as the wide bed he was used to.

Second, that night had given way to morning. The sun streamed in through the windows, its light dulled by a graying sky. Yuuri could hear the distant voices of soldiers beginning their daily training. Out in the hall, he heard the footfalls along the floor that signified the changing of the guard.

Third—and most important—that he was not alone.

A noticeable weight rested against his left side, wedged between himself and the back of the couch in what Yuuri could only assume must be an uncomfortable position. The heavy fabric of a full dress skirt was spread over his legs, and someone's hair tickled the side of his face. Yuuri inhaled deeply but did not pick up the familiar smell of soap and rose oil. Yet whatever the smell was, it was floral and pungent, and so familiar, like something long forgotten...

Memories from the previous evening flooded his mind—his paperwork, Elise, the wine. He remembered growing tired; he remembered trying to make it back to his room, but the office was hot and stifling and he felt so overstimulated, so... so...

He felt desire, but the recipient of that desire had not been Wolfram.

Yuuri jerked further awake. His eyes popped open. He sat up quickly but soon regretted it, as his head spun and his stomach twisted, threatening to send up whatever remained within it. He groaned, brought his hands to his face to block out the sunlight and the movement beside him.

The wine... he'd drank too much wine...

"Your Majesty?"

Elise was still there. Yuuri didn't need to see her to register her presence. She was there with her dress hiked up and her hair mused, and there he was with his pants undone, fighting a hangover.

"Shit," he swore.

What had he done?

What had he _done_? What had he been _thinking_?

Nothing. He'd thought nothing.

But he could remember Elise beneath him. He could remember kissing her, thrusting within her. Suddenly he felt sick from more than the wine. He was sick with shame, with guilt, horrified and embarrassed and tormented by the thought of what he'd done. That she was still there, that she'd fallen asleep beside him... it was too private, too intimate. These moments were for Wolfram, not for the noble daughter of a known traitor.

"I was drunk," he said, as if saying it out-loud absolved him of any blame.

It didn't, of course. It was no excuse.

Then why? _Why_?

"Your Majesty..."

He forced himself to look at her, lowered his hands and opened his eyes and made himself see. Elise shifted in place, her expression the very picture of concern. She straightened her dress the best she was able while sitting.

She was a beautiful woman, all long, dark brown hair and startlingly green eyes—startling like Wolfram's had been before the poison dulled their depths. There was something very proper and controlled about Elise. She was dignified. She held her head up with pride even in the face of her father's disgrace.

But she wasn't Wolfram. How could he ever have mistaken the two?

"I was drunk," he said again.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"And you... you were... Oh God, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean... Elise... this was a mistake..."

Yuuri rose from the couch. His head spun as he pulled himself upright. He stumbled on unsteady feet. The motion sent him back a few steps until the edge of his desk brought him to a stop. He grasped onto the side of it for support. His breathing was erratic, strained by the horror of the situation.

"Your Majesty..."

"I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry..."

"It's alright, Your Majesty," Elise said.

She stood to her feet as well, smoothed out the skirt of her dress and brought her hands up to fix her hair. She did not sound angry. In fact, she didn't sound upset at all. Instead, she was concerned but calm in the face of his panic—patient and understanding.

She shouldn't be so calm, Yuuri thought. She should be upset. He'd come onto her while he'd been drunk, and she would have had no choice but to let him. A noblewoman of her standing in the situation Elise found herself in due to her father's rash actions... she wouldn't have said "no" even if she wanted to.

"It's not alright," he said. He brought his hands to his face again and hid behind his palms.

"Your Majesty..."

"This shouldn't have happened. This _can't _happen. You have to understand."

"I do understand, Your Majesty. I'll not speak a word of this to anyone. Prince Wolfram will never know."

Yuuri groaned pitifully. He thought he might cry, thinking of Wolfram in their bedchamber, unable to see, barely able to function on his own. What would Wolfram think? What would he say? If he ever found out...

He couldn't. Not now. Not yet. This... this would destroy him when he was only just getting some of his strength back. To be faced with something like this at such a time as this... it wouldn't be good for Wolfram. It would set his recovery back by weeks. Yuuri couldn't do that to him. Not like this.

A part of Yuuri thought Wolfram might be understanding. It wasn't like Yuuri to drink so much. He'd not known how it would affect him. Surely Wolfram would know that. He would be angry, of course. Distraught. But he would understand, wouldn't he? He would know Yuuri hadn't meant to do it. He'd only had too much wine. Without it, nothing of what he'd done with Elise would have happened.

And it would never happen again. Yuuri would make sure of that.

"I'm so sorry," he said.

"You've not need to apologize, Your Majesty," Elise countered. "It was an honor."

"No," Yuuri said. His stomach gave a sickening twist. "God, no, don't say things like that."

An honor...

What was honor?

Years ago Yuuri might have had the answer. Now he wasn't sure he knew what that answer was.

"My apologies, Your Majesty," Elise said. She lowered her eyes. Yuuri thought it might have been in shame. "We'll not speak of this again."

He thought he should have continued to apologize. He should have fallen onto his knees and asked for her forgiveness. He should be offering _her_ comfort. Instead, she was comforting _him_, saying whatever it took to ease his mind when he held all the power, and she had none.

He felt sick. Unsure whether it was from the wine or the knowledge of what he'd done, Yuuri decided making a quick getaway would be for the best for the both of them. He couldn't expect Elise to deal with him like this, not after what he'd already done. He needed... _something_. Time, perhaps. Distance. Space. Every part of him screamed to put as much space between them as possible.

"Return to your room," he said.

It sounded too harsh and he winced. Elise didn't flinch away from him, but she frowned slightly. Yuuri though she might look sad.

"Yes, of course," she said.

She dipped a low curtsy. Yuuri shook his head and turned away.

Why wasn't she leaving? Why hadn't she gone from the room when they'd both woken up? Why hadn't she left the evening before once he'd fallen asleep? What compelled her to stay?

Idly he wondered if this somehow meant more to her than what he assumed it to be, and that thought struck more fear into him than the thought that he'd taken advantage of her. If she had... _feelings_ for him...

The thought was preposterous, after all that he'd done to her. Imprisoning her in the dungeon. Putting her under house-arrest. Accusing her of treason. He'd done nothing more than confine her and bring her pain. Yuuri didn't think he deserved her forgiveness or her loyalty; he certainly didn't think he deserved anything more.

Yuuri swallowed thickly, righted his pants, and went to the door. He practically ripped it open, pulling it inward with an unnecessary amount of force that nearly took it from its hinges.

And there, standing with her fist poised to knock, was the nanny—Kat Algren.

"Your Majesty...?"

She wore her confusion on her face when she looked at him, but a quick glance beyond his shoulder told her everything she needed to know.

Yuuri's face blanched. Kat looked up at him with wide eyes. The guards shifted uncomfortably at the door. Behind him, Yuuri felt Elise drawing closer. She edged passed him and slipped by Kat, scampering down the hall without so much as a fleeting look back.

One of the guards cleared his throat and knocked both Kat and Yuuri out of their respective stupors.

"Prince Wolfram was asking after you," Kat said. She took a few steps back like she meant to make a hasty departure.

Before he could think better of it, Yuuri grabbed Kat by the arms and held her in place. Her head whipped up to look at him again, and for a moment Yuuri was struck by the look of fear upon her face.

She was afraid of him. Why? Because of what he'd done? Because of what he was capable of?

He loosened his grip on her arms and hoped the look upon his face was beseeching as he said, "You're sworn to silence. All of you," he added, for the benefit of the guards.

Kat looked as if she might argue. She opened her mouth to say something but stopped herself before she could so much as speak a single word. She hung her head in silence and made no further struggle to remove herself from Yuuri's grasp. Eventually she nodded, and sagged within his grasp as if what he'd asked of her was too heavy for her to bear.

"I'm sorry," Yuuri said when he released her.

She shook her head and backed away. She would not look at him again.

"Apologize to Prince Wolfram," she said.

Then she turned and walked away.

Yuuri sank against the doorway and dropped his head back into his hands.

* * *

><p>"Lord Adla!" Julius called as he rode up to the scene of carnage and destruction. "A word, if you please."<p>

He knew the village intimately; it served as an outpost and a store for supplies and armaments. It was one of the closest towns to the border and therefore heavily fortified. Walled, gated, and home to at least fifty soldiers, it was designed and built to withstand border attacks and raids. Early in his military career, long before Julius received his first promotion that led him on a steady track to General, he had been stationed here. He could still remember the layout of the barracks.

Those barracks were now aflame. The village streets were littered with bodies and stained with blood, the gates torn from their hinges, the great stone wall destroyed to the east, now no more than piles of rubble. Smoke hung heavy in the air, carrying the scent of death to the heavens above, where it blotted out the silver light of the stars.

Louis Adla stood in the center of it all, dressed in black and weighed down by armor. He held a sword in one hand and a parrying dagger in the other. Both were soaked with blood. Rivers of it streaked down his face, and parts of his hair were matted and stained. His armor and clothing were covered, darker in places where the blood had soaked through.

None of it was his own.

"You are foolish to cross the border a wanted man," Lord Adla greeted him. He stepped over a pair of bodies as he sheathed both of his blades. "Return to Cimaron."

Julius ignored the demand to issue one of his own. "Cease your attacks against my people."

Lord Adla laughed coldly. "What does a traitor care for peasants and men of low rank?"

"The Bielefelds are my enemies. My people are not."

"Is there such a distinction when the Bielefelds remain in power?"

"These were innocent men," Julius insisted.

"In war, there are no innocent men."

Julius remained upon his horse, staring down at the young duke with his face contorted by anger. He may have been marked a traitor due to his actions against the Prince, but he was still a man of honor, and honorable men did not attack defenseless women and children, or soldiers in peace time.

Bristling with outrage, Julius said, "Then your King is prepared to war with the Great Demon Kingdom?"

"My King has been prepared from the start," Lord Adla said. His lips curved into a cold smirk.

Julius did not yet know what to think of the young Duke. He was a swordsman to rival Lord Weller, but he bore not a trace of humanity. There was no warmth to him, no feeling. He existed purely to execute the orders of a King ruled by his own desires.

"His Majesty Lyron swore to end these attacks," Julius said.

Lord Adla's brow quirked but his eyes were empty of emotion—the closest he would come to showing curiosity. "You know of this?"

"I am well informed."

"Then you should also know that His Majesty is not pleased by your attempt to poison Prince Wolfram."

Julius gnashed his teeth together, his hands tight on the reins.

Lord Adla's smirk only grew. Again, it did not reach his eyes.

"You are a traitor to more than one King," he said.

"The Prince is alive."

"But that was not your intention, was it?"

"Your King has broken his agreement! The Black Knights were never to cross into our lands!"

"If you expected my King to keep his word, you are more of a fool than I thought," Lord Adla said.

"Your King has no honor," Julius ground out.

"What is honor?"

One of Julius's hands released the reins and made to go for the hilt of his sword. Lord Adla's was on the hilt of his first. There was a warning in his eyes. Julius's hand paused and twitched at his side.

If he was no match for Lord Weller, he would be no match for Louis Adla, certainly not with the Black Knights falling into place behind the young Duke, hands ready to draw their blades in an instant should Julius follow through with his silent threat.

"My King has no need of honor," Lord Adla said. His hand fell away from his sword hilt, unconcerned. "Perhaps your King will one day learn that war is no place for such things."

"His Majesty King Yuuri will not stand for this."

Lord Adla's laugh was as cold and emotionless as the rest of him. "How touching it is that you speak for a King who has labeled you a traitor."

"_I am no traitor_," Julius seethed.

It was he who had been betrayed. The Bielefelds were a clan of deceivers. They hung onto the coattails of those more powerful and rode them into positions of influence. First Wolfgang with Queen Cecilie, and now Prince Wolfram with King Yuuri. They desired nothing but power and control over the Kingdom, and when they had it there was no justice for those who had been wronged by them.

Julius's son was dead at the hands of a Bielefeld, and yet no Bielefeld had ever been held accountable. Wolfgang escaped with no more than a slap on the wrist, freed by a Queen overcome by emotion, despite the courts deeming that he was guilty.

They would pay for their guilt, one way or another.

Julius looked around the scene in disgust, eyeing Louis Adla and his Black Knights at the same time his eyes skimmed over the inert forms of the dead. And he wondered, was this his only path to vengeance? Was this his only choice? Must he condone such actions for the sake of attaining justice?

He did not want to. There was a fine line between honor and treachery, and Lyron fell on the wrong side of it.

Yet Julius had been feeding him information all these years, waiting for the day when Wolfgang would lose his son as a result. He had kept his silence during the last war, had faced countless scenes like this with a grim determination, with the hope that one day his efforts would pay off, and all these sacrifices would not be made in vain.

Now, with the outcome he desired so close at hand, he could not be sure how much more he could stomach.

"Go about your business," he said, returning both hands to the reins.

Lord Adla's smirk never left his face.

Julius turned his horse and rode for the border, putting the village, his memories, and his honor behind him.

What was left for him to lose?

* * *

><p>The longer he remained bedridden, the more restless Wolfram became. Weak though he might be, he ached for mobility and longed for a change in scenery, though his vision remained impaired. He saw shadows and movement, but color and clarity were slow to return. His world was as dark as that which had plagued his dreams the days following his ingestion of the poison. With so little improvement, Wolfram had already given up hope of ever seeing again.<p>

It should have bothered him more. He should have been as enraged as he was when he awoke to learn what had been done to him, and by whom. There remained a small fire of anger which burned low in his gut, but in the weeks since the banquet it had been overcome by sadness and lethargy. The immobility was worse, he'd decided. He could tolerate not being able to see if he could only get around on his own. If he had more of Yuuri's company than short, sporadic visits devoid of intimacy, he might have been able to find some hope in the situation.

Instead there was nothing but the unceasing darkness and the misery, the torment of knowing that Yuuri could not bear to see him.

"He's determined to find Lord von Mannheim," Greta explained.

It was a line he'd heard repetitively since waking—from his mother, from his brothers, from Elizabeth, Katherine, and Greta. They said it as if Yuuri's intentions made up for his absence, as if his anger and determination to bring the culprit to justice were more important than Wolfram's need for comfort and support. He had others to give him those things in Yuuri's absence, after all. He should expect his relationship with his husband to be different in times of hardship. Yuuri was the King. He had more than Wolfram to worry about.

But it was not enough and they all knew it. Wolfram knew they did. If they could not tell by his words and actions, then surely they knew by his long silences. He grew quiet and grave. When the anger abated, they should have known something was wrong. None of them were so ignorant as to mistake his moods.

It was as if their relationship had returned to the state in which it had been before their wedding. When they embraced, Yuuri never kept his arms around Wolfram for long, choosing instead to keep Wolfram at arm's length. Rare were the times now when Yuuri's mouth would meet Wolfram's own. Instead, Yuuri would plant a kiss onto Wolfram's forehead, or brush his lips against Wolfram's cheek. There was a sudden distance between them that no one could miss. It had been weeks since Yuuri had touched him with anything bordering on intimacy.

Wolfram should have been relieved. By all accounts, intimacy should have been the furthest thing from his mind. He was still recovering. His vision was compromised and he could not walk unassisted. He was tired and irritable, weak; every so often his body was overcome by tremors. He was in no condition for physical intimacy, and his emotions were in such disarray Wolfram couldn't even be sure he could handle intimacy of the more emotional sort.

Yet all the same, he craved it. He found that he required the validation. He needed to know that, though things had changed all around them, what existed between he had Yuuri was still the same.

So uncommon was it for Yuuri to even enter their bedchamber that Wolfram jolted awake one night when he did in the middle of winter. He could tell it was Yuuri by the sound of his footfalls, which dragged along the floor tiredly. They stopped when Wolfram stirred and pushed himself up in bed.

"Yuuri...?"

"Go back to sleep, Wolf."

Yuuri's voice sounded so tired, and so sad.

"What are you doing?" Wolfram said.

"Just getting a change of clothes."

Desperate for things between them to return to how they used to be, Wolfram slid from the bed and attempted to make his way in the direction where he was sure Yuuri's footfalls had come to a stop. Wolfram held out his arms, reaching for something he could not see. He thought he heard Yuuri make a choked sound, but it was so quiet Wolfram could not be sure he wasn't imagining it. Otherwise Yuuri said nothing, nor did he make any move to assist Wolfram as Wolfram's mother and Greta might have upon watching him struggle to his feet.

Wolfram made it five steps unassisted before his knees buckled and gave out. He cursed lowly and fell, fully prepared to hit the floor in an ungraceful heap when a pair of firm hands caught him under the arms. He fell into Yuuri's chest instead, solid and warm against Wolfram's wavering strength and the unrelenting chill that followed him.

For a few moments Wolfram didn't move. He leaned into Yuuri. He put his head to Yuuri's shoulder. He inhaled Yuuri's scent—the smell of ink and old papers, the smell of chewed mint, and of ash from the Earthen things he smoked when he was stressed. Wolfram held his breath to savor the smell. He let it out slowly. The buckling in his legs continued, but with Yuuri's support Wolfram was able to remain standing.

Wolfram slid his hands up Yuuri's chest and knew that Yuuri's jacket was missing, for the thinner fabric of Yuuri's shirt met his palms. He ghosted his hands up Yuuri's neck and brought them to Yuuri's face. It felt rough to the touch, as if Yuuri had gone days without shaving. Wolfram tried to imagine what it must look like but found the task impossible. He had never seen Yuuri with anything more than the patch of hair he'd grown on his chin. When Wolfram brought his hands higher, he found Yuuri's hair in disarray.

"Wolf..."

Wolfram marveled at how easy it was to find what he was searching for even though he could not see. He threaded his hands into Yuuri's hair, lifted his head up, and brought Yuuri's head down to meet him with an ease he'd thought impossible. But it was as if there were some invisible force showing him the way, guiding his lips along the path to Yuuri's.

The kiss was all gentleness—the softest press of lips. Wolfram sighed through his nose and leaned heavily against Yuuri. Now he could taste the mint and ash, now he could feel the beating of Yuuri's heart, the scratch of Yuuri's stubble along his bottom lip. At first, Yuuri fell into the kiss. He raised his hands to Wolfram's face and hummed in approval, but it did not last long. Eventually Yuuri seemed to regain control of himself, and he broke the kiss without warning.

"Wolf..."

"What?" Wolfram asked.

He moved in like he meant to retake Yuuri's lips. His attempts were thwarted when Yuuri pulled back.

"Wolf, stop."

"_Why_?"

He sounded petulant. He could hear it in his voice—demanding, like that of a child denied one of their whims. But he did not care. Wolfram would hear for himself why Yuuri refused to be close to him, even if it took him all night to pull it out of him.

"I just can't right now," Yuuri said.

"Can't? Or won't?"

"Wolf..."

"I never would have thought you would be the type to pull away the moment things became difficult."

Wolfram paused, chuckled derisively, and said, "Perhaps I was giving you too much credit. You _are _notorious for running away from me."

"Wolf, that's not fair."

"Not fair?" Wolfram said. He could hear the anger building in his voice. He felt Yuuri flinch. "How dare you complain to me about what's not fair! Do you think what happened to me is fair? What about the fact that you can't bear to be around me for more than a few moments? Is that fair?"

"That's not what I meant..."

"Isn't it?"

"Come on, Wolf, please don't do this."

"Does it hurt you to hear the truth?"

"It isn't true."

"Then why will you not stay?"

"I just... can't," Yuuri said.

"And I ask again. Can't, or won't?"

"I'm trying to do what's right."

"You spending every moment of every day in your office avoiding me isn't going to help us locate Julius any sooner!" Wolfram shouted.

He tore himself away from Yuuri in his anger. Wolfram stumbled back and fell, only just catching the mattress as he went down. He crouched there on the floor by the bed, cursing his new handicaps for making him so weak, and cursing Yuuri for being a coward about everything.

"Wolf..." Yuuri said, his voice quiet. Wolfram listened carefully, but Yuuri made no move toward him. "I'm sorry..."

"You're always sorry!" Wolfram spat.

"I know I've disappointed you. I'm always disappointing you."

"You wouldn't if you'd only be there for me."

"I'm sorry," Yuuri said. "I don't know what else to say."

And that was the heart of the matter. Neither of them knew quite what to say to the other. Yuuri had never been good with words and Wolfram was too guarded with himself to spill his thoughts and feelings without provocation. He didn't know what to say to tell Yuuri that he missed him; he didn't know how to tell Yuuri that he was _so _afraid that he might never see again, that he might always be a burden. He didn't know how to admit to his weaknesses when Yuuri needed him to be strong, and he didn't know how to ask for Yuuri's strength in return.

Wolfram was afraid that things would change irrevocably, that they'd never again have what they once had because he could no longer be the man he used to be. The further Yuuri drew away, the less Wolfram had to hold onto. He was grasping at threads that frayed and loosened at his touch.

"I'm sorry, Wolf," Yuuri said. "I love you... but I just can't right now."

"When will you?" Wolfram replied.

He could hear the frown in Yuuri's voice when Yuuri responded, "When all of this is over."

"It'll never be over."

The years had proven as much.

Yuuri did not stay to hear or say more. Wolfram heard his heavy sigh, then the shuffling of his feet along the floor. Yuuri's footfalls grew quieter the further away he drew. He paused a moment, and Wolfram thought Yuuri might have been looking in his direction, but Yuuri said nothing and Wolfram gave no indication that he cared. All too soon he heard the door open, and the sound of Yuuri's steps retreating.

And Wolfram realized, Yuuri'd never gone to the wardrobe for a change of clothes.

* * *

><p>The dungeons were a dark, lonely place.<p>

Even with the comforts insisted upon by His Majesty the King—a cot on which to sleep, a chamberpot that was emptied regularly, and three sustaining meals a day—the dungeons of Blood Pledge Castle were a dismal place. Haunted, some would say. There were times when she thought she heard unnatural moaning, when she caught a flicker of something out of the corner of her eye. But with four others occupying the dungeons with her, the noises could have easily come from one of them, and the flickering could be explained away as a trick of the torchlights.

Irma Fieldler had lost count of how many days she'd remained in this place. Long enough to have seen the Aristocrats dragged in and imprisoned. She'd seen Lords von Voltaire and von Christ released, Admiral von Bielefeld, and the Lords Karbelnikof and Wincott. She'd witnessed Lord von Spitzweg's eventual release as well, for his prison had been across from hers, and Lady Cecilie had come to open the cell herself.

It must have been weeks since she had been brought to her cell by His Eminence the Great Sage. Perhaps a month. Perhaps more. She had no way of knowing the time except by following the changing of the guard, but she'd lost track of that long ago.

Irma passed the time as best as she was able. She sang songs. She wrote letters to her family with the quill, ink, and parchment that were provided to her. She read a little, but the books from the library were all beyond her level of comprehension. Eventually she gave up on them.

She daydreamed the most. She imagined her children, whom she had not seen since before her ordeal. She passed many hours lying in her cot, imagining their faces, and waiting for sleep to claim her.

It was there that His Majesty the King found her one day when the temperatures were uncommonly low. Irma huddled under a blanket, shivering. She knew it must be winter.

"Irma Fieldler..."

Irma gave a start at the sound of the familiar voice and turned to look through the metal bars that kept her trapped inside. There stood the King in all his glory. He looked no older than her—young still, but aged and matured by stress. That day he wore all black but for the white that lined his collar. Irma noticed that he was not outlined in blue, as he often was when he came into the dungeons to speak with one of the prisoners.

"Your Majesty!"

Irma rose from the cot and dropped to her knees on the hard stone floor. She bowed her head low in shame.

"I thought you might like to know that I've seen your children," the King said. "They're doing well."

Irma's body sagged in her relief. "And my mother?" she asked.

The King paused as if the answer pained him. Indeed, when he spoke again, his words brought grief into her heart.

"The healers says she isn't likely to last the week."

Irma trembled. Tears blurred her eyes. "What is to become of my children?"

"They'll become wards of the crown, under the custody of Lady von Karbelnikof. They'll be well taken care of."

It was more than she could have ever dreamed, and certainly more than she would have allowed herself to hope for. Irma sobbed her relief and her gratitude into the ground. She crawled across the floor to lean against the iron bars and reached a hand out for the King. He kneeled and took her hand into both of his own.

With a bravery she did not often feel, Irma raised her head to look the King in the eye. He did not smile, but she could see pity and sympathy in his gaze. He would not soon forget the sins she had committed against him, but in that moment he showed her his forgiveness. He clutched her hand and stared at her entreatingly, showering her with a warmth and a kindness Irma thought unearned.

"And...what is to become of me?" she asked.

"You will remain here," he said.

"For how long?"

His Majesty frowned sadly. His grip on her hand tightened. "For the rest of your life," he said.

"Will I see my children?"

The King shook his head. "The council voted against it."

Tears spilled from Irma's eyes. She nodded to show she understood.

"Then Your Majesty, I would rather be put to death," she said.

Irma sobbed openly. For much of her life she thought herself unafraid of death. She had two living children, but had lost two more in childbirth and another to illness when he was still a baby. Her father had been killed over twenty-five years ago during the war with Cimaron; her husband met the same fate at an outpost three years ago, massacred by Isidore's Black Knights. Her mother had been ill for quite some time now, and close to death more times than Irma could count.

Yet Irma had never imagined her own death. She thought she would grow old working in the comfort of the palace. She thought she would be able to watch her children grow—her son into a proud soldier like his father, and her daughter into a lovely young woman to follow in her footsteps. Perhaps Irma would have met a man and known love again, and grown her family further still. There had been so many possibilities, numerous paths and avenues her life could have taken.

Instead, she found herself here, at the crossroads between eternal imprisonment and death. Despite the comforts of her cell, the choice was an easy one.

"Irma..."

"Surely you can understand, Your Majesty," she said. "I should be put to death for the crimes I have committed."

"You were coerced and threatened."

"Yet if I must remain here for the rest of my life, if I shall never see my children again, death would be far more kind."

Irma watched the King's throat work as he swallowed. He stared at her with such an open look of sadness that she had to cast her eyes away. She tried to pull her hand from his, but he held onto it. Only when he finally loosened his hold did she know that he accepted. She sobbed gratefully.

Not once in her life had she thought she would be grateful for death the come.

The next day, Irma Fieldler's death warrant was signed. She wrote her last letter to her children, gave it to the King, and begged that he remind them how much she loved them. She slept peacefully that night, for the first time since meeting the man in the shadows of the guest wing.

Irma was led from her cell by Lord Weller the following morning. She was taken passed the cells of the remaining Aristocrats and out a side door which led to a green lawn, dull and sparse now in winter. Irma shivered from the cold and blinked against the harsh light of the sun. Before her was the scaffold, the block, and the executioner, his face covered by a dark mask.

The crowd was a small one. Only Lords von Voltaire and Christ, His Eminence the Greta Sage, Admiral von Bielefeld, and the Lady Elizabeth stood beyond the scaffold. His Majesty the King was conspicuously absent. Lord Weller guided her up the scaffolds step and brought her to the block.

Irma trembled. Slow tears streaked hot paths down her face as she was lowered to her knees.

"I beg His Majesty's forgiveness," she said.

She put her head to the block.

It was severed by a single stroke of the ax.

* * *

><p>Conrart climbed the long, winding steps of the eastern tower. A sense of tragedy hung in the air, thick as the tang of blood had been upon the dungeon green only an hour before. As familiar as he was with death, and as intimately as he had known the world's unfairness, there was indeed something tragic about a young mother being put to death by her own request, to escape a lifetime of darkness and solitude. Foolish as she had been to become swept up in Julius's plotting, Irma Fieldler had not been touched by evil—merely fear and desperation.<p>

Halfway up the staircase Conrart found Yuuri leaning against the sill of an open window. A chill breeze blew into the tower as a result, though Yuuri seemed less affected by that than he was by the scene below. The tower overlooked the dungeon green, where the scaffold was still being scrubbed clean of blood. Irma Fieldler's body had long been taken to its grave, her severed head along with it, but the blood would be a lasting reminder of what had occurred that day. It stained the scaffold red, drying brown under the light of the sun.

Yuuri stood with hunched shoulders, leaning on the sill for support. His hair was a mess, like he'd been dragging a hand through it repeatedly, and his face was wet with tears. Around his feet were numerous butts of the cigarettes he'd finished; another, lit and halfway gone, was perched in his hand. The scent of smoke was pungent in spite of the opened window. Even so, Conrart imagined it did not quite mask the scent of blood far below.

At first, Yuuri gave no indication that he was aware of Conrart's presence. He continued to stare out with an endless stream of tears sliding down his face, occasionally taking a drag from his most recent cigarette.

But he was not entirely blind to what occurred around him, as Conrart learned when Yuuri said, "I should have pardoned her."

Conrart frowned, saw the way Yuuri's body trembled almost imperceptibly, and said, "You saw."

Yuuri's only acknowledgment was a solemn nod.

Had Conrart been a less restrained man, he would have cursed. As it was, he did little more than frown. Beheadings were far from uncommon in this world, yet it was something he'd dared to hope Yuuri would never have to see.

"It was a fate she chose for herself," Conrart said.

"But it shouldn't have been a choice she had to make. I should have pardoned her. I could have. I didn't have to sign that warrant."

"Then you would not have had justice."

"What is justice anyway?" Yuuri said. He crushed his cigarette out against the windowsill and let the butt drop to the stair beneath his feet.

Conrart found he had no answer.

"I still don't understand why she did it," Yuuri said. "Why did she choose to go along with it? She could have come to me. I wouldn't have let anyone hurt her family. I could have protected all of them."

"And Wolfram would not be as he is now," Conrart said.

Yuuri clutched the windowsill so tightly his knuckles went white.

"It wasn't her fault," he said.

"She reacted on fear, not on logic, but it was her choice in the end," Conrart countered.

"But did she deserve to die?"

"Yes and no. The answer to that question is never a simple matter, regardless of whom the subject may be. By law, death was the suitable punishment. What would pardoning her have done?"

"Saved a life," Yuuri said. "Kept her family together."

"And shown the extent to which a criminal could go and still earn your forgiveness," Conrart said. "Persuaded or not, she slipped that poison into Wolfram's cup on her own. Would you forgive all dispensers of poison?"

"I don't know."

"Would you forgive Julius?"

Yuuri's hands tightened on the sill again. His expression went distant and cold.

"No," he said. "I won't forgive him."

"How is what he did any different?"

Yuuri shook his head. Conrart was sure Yuuri did not want to believe the two situations were in any way similar, yet Yuuri presented no further argument. Unsure how he felt about the issue himself, Conrart said nothing else.

Eventually, Yuuri lost his last shred of composure and broke down into wracking sobs. When Conrart placed a comforting palm to Yuuri's back, Yuuri turned from the window and leaned close to him. He sobbed into Conrart's shoulder, clutched tightly to Conrart's jacket. For that moment on the stairwell, Yuuri regressed back to the scared fifteen-year-old he used to be, the boy Conrart had always known remained beneath the man Yuuri had become.

"I can't take any more of this," Yuuri said.

There was nothing left for Conrart to say, nothing left for him to do but to hold Yuuri close and allow him to spill his sorrows—for Wolfram, for himself, for his kingdom, and for one poor woman gone cold in her grave.

* * *

><p>"I don't understand why you've brought me here," Prince Wolfram said.<p>

Katherine Algren drifted behind the royal pair. With little Lord Alexei in his lessons with Lord Gunter, Katherine was in charge only of her daughter Brigitta and Prince Merry. Brigitta drifted about the room, exploring the large chamber with Prince Wolfram's permission. Meanwhile, Katherine held Prince Merry against her hip. Merry babbled jovially, occasionally chewing on a lock of Katherine's blonde hair.

Ahead, Princess Greta led Prince Wolfram down the center aisle of the room, which had been lined with a lush red carpet.

"This is where Arthur and I are to be married," she said of the formal throne room.

Prince Wolfram frowned. The expression on his face was one of confusion.

He was little better—more energetic that he'd been in the immediate aftermath of the poison, but his vision had not returned to him and he continued to need assistance with his mobility. At the moment, Princess Greta had one arm around his shoulders; the opposite held Prince Wolfram's hand, holding him upright as much as she was guiding him.

It was a sad picture, this reversal of roles, with Princess Greta looking more like the parent and Prince Wolfram the child.

Every once in a while Katherine saw signs of improvement. There were times when something in Prince Wolfram's eyes would shift, like he was making an effort to focus on something in particular. A face, perhaps, or a specific spot in the room. His strength was returning to him more quickly; he could stand for longer periods of time. Often, Prince Wolfram could make his own way to the washroom, though the effort was taxing and he would inevitably need assistance making his way back.

Katherine chose to view these changes as encouraging signs. Prince Wolfram was far from healed, but he was returning to himself.

"You're to be married in Cimaron," he said.

He would not see it, but Princess Greta smiled at him fondly.

"We've decided to have the ceremony here instead," she said.

"But all of the plans—"

"Will work as well here as they would in Cimaron, only you won't have to worry about making the journey."

Prince Wolfram frowned with some of his old spirit. "I am more than capable of making the journey," he said.

"I've already written to Arthur. He agrees that under the circumstances, we should have the ceremony here. He'll be arriving with his brother and Lady Flynn—"

"_Queen_," Prince Wolfram corrected her.

"Alright, Her Majesty Queen Flynn of Cimaron, Lady of Caloria. In any case, they'll be arriving at the end of March. The ceremony will be held in early April, just as planned. I'll be invested as the Duchess of Pembroke when I return to Cimaron with Arthur and Their Majesties King Varick and Queen Flynn."

Prince Wolfram's frown remained in place.

Princess Greta's laughter was light and cheerful. "Yuuri told me about all these traditions on Earth I want to incorporate into the ceremony. Yuuri's going to be the one to walk me down the aisle," she explained.

She led Prince Wolfram down the scarlet carpeting to the dais at the end. Here she guided the Prince up the steps and helped him sit upon the appropriate throne.

"After, during the banquet, once Arthur and I have shared our first dace, I want my next dance to be with you," Princess Greta said. She smiled teasingly. "So I expect you to be ready for it."

The conversation faded into the background as Katherine considered the sight of Prince Wolfram on the throne, next to an empty chair where the King should sit. She'd had the good fortune to see Prince Wolfram's marriage to the King three years ago; before that, as a very young child, she'd been a guest at Admiral von Bielefeld's marriage to Lady Cecilie. Katherine was well versed in the spectacle that was a royal marriage. Only three months it had been since Lady Elizabeth married His Eminence the Great Sage, and now they were to have another wedding not even three months from now.

But it was less that thought and more the sight of the empty throne beside Prince Wolfram that had Katherine's head in the clouds.

Katherine liked to think of herself as the loyal sort. For most of her life she'd seen her father as the epitome of a loyal man. His service to Admiral von Bielefeld was unmatched. From boyhood, Francis Algren had served the house of Bielefeld. The two men had grown up together, and in a distant sort of way so had their children. One of Katherine's earliest memories was the announcement of Prince Wolfram's birth, and Admiral von Bielefeld's pride in finally having a living son.

She'd followed the young Prince's life from afar. Admiral von Bielefeld spoke of his son often when visiting her father's estate. Katherine heard so many stories about Wolfram it was as if she knew him. The Kingdom knew Wolfram as sheltered and spoiled; Katherine grew up thinking of Prince Wolfram as someone to be protected, even when his military career began. He was, after all, still just a boy compared to her—young, rash, with a reputation for getting in over his head in an effort to prove himself against his more accomplished older brothers.

As her father served Admiral von Bielefeld, so did Katherine serve Prince Wolfram. Though her primary charge may be the Prince Merry, her loyalty remained strong with the Bielefeld heir. She did all that he asked with joy and gratitude to be in the service of someone so exalted, someone so kind and nurturing toward children—including her own.

Katherine didn't like to keep secrets from him, even those entrusted to her by the King.

Later that evening, when the children were put down to bed and Prince Wolfram and Princess Greta returned to the royal bedchamber to further discuss the upcoming wedding in comfort, Katherine snuck down the palace halls on quiet feet. She paused outside the door to the King's office but heard nothing beneath the sounds of the changing of the guard, even if she could see light filtering out from the gap between the door and the floor. Certainly the King was still awake and working, but it seemed this time he was alone.

Katherine continued to drift down the halls, leaving the royal residential areas behind her. She made her way to the barracks at the rear of the palace, slipping by a group of soldiers in varying uniforms. They spared her little more than a glance, so engrossed were they in their own conversation. It was just as well, for Katherine had no desire to be distracted by idle chatter.

She came to a stop in front of a particular door, raised her fist to knock, then hesitated.

She considered the consequences of what she was about to do. Breaking her silence would have been considered a punishable offense by less amendable kings. Would she not be using His Majesty's kindness to her advantage, speaking of this with the knowledge that he was likely to be lenient with her? At the very least, she was breaking his trust in her, and a King's trust was hard to come by in this day and age.

But when her thoughts drifted back to Prince Wolfram, sightless and weak, Katherine knew she was making the right choice.

The sound her knuckles made against the door sounded too loud to her paranoid ears. Katherine looked up and down the hallway, but none of the soldiers lingering about paid her any mind. Indeed, they went about their business as if there were not a fretful woman currently in their midst.

The door opened only a moment later, and Katherine was greeted by the familiar face of Lord Conrart Weller.

Spending a great deal of time around Prince Wolfram meant frequently being in the presence of the King, which meant, by extension, becoming acquainted with Lord Weller. Katherine appreciated Lord Weller for his calm disposition and his benevolent manner. He was dutiful toward the King, he showed concern for his younger brother, he treated Katherine with respect, and he handled her daughter's rambunctious and inquisitive nature with a gentle hand.

"Katherine..."

He used her given name with familiarity. Katherine, on the other hand, could still not bring herself to call the former Prince anything but Lord Weller.

"I wish to speak with you in private," she said.

He looked out into the hall with sudden concern, glanced first left, then right, and opened the door wider to allow her into the room.

Lord Weller's room was sparsely decorated. There was a bed wide enough for two but more comfortable for one, a side table with a pitcher of wine, a rough wooden table for two, and a battered looking wardrobe that must have been with him for decades. The bed linens were plain but well maintained. There was only one window which overlooked the training grounds. A close examination of her surroundings revealed that Lord Weller did not have his own washroom.

Rather than the amenities allowed to a former Prince, and to a man in such a high standing with His Majesty, Lord Weller chose to live the simpler life of a common soldier. His room was functional; it lacked the personal touches one might normally find in a nobleman's bedchamber. Katherine thought it was fitting for such an unassuming man. In any case, he spent so little of his time there to begin with.

"Please, have a seat," Lord Weller offered.

"Oh no, I couldn't," Katherine said, too restless and anxious to be still.

Noticing this, Lord Weller went to the side table, said, "Wine?" and poured some into a goblet before Katherine could answer.

She nodded anyway and took the goblet gratefully. She drank from it deeply to fortify herself, but still did not sit even when Lord Weller took a seat at the small table.

"By all rights I should not be coming to you with this," Katherine said.

"Is it to do with Wolfram?"

"Yes and no. More to do with His Majesty."

Lord Weller sat patiently, but when she began to pace back and forth Katherine could see the concern in his eyes. Yet he remained where he was, and he made no effort to have her speak before she was ready to.

"It was a month ago now," Katherine said after another gulp of wine. "Prince Wolfram sent me to His Majesty's office to ask after him, but... His Majesty was not alone..."

Still, Lord Weller maintained his silence.

Katherine was grateful for it. She didn't think she could have continued had she been interrupted.

"Lady Elise was with him. Their clothes were rumpled. It... it appeared as if they'd been intimate with one another."

Katherine paused and swallowed another mouthful of wine.

"His Majesty looked panicked when I arrived, like he hadn't meant for anyone to see. He swore the guards and me to silence. He was apologetic. I... I didn't want to believe what I saw, but the more I consider it, the more I know... there's something between His Majesty and Lady Elise. I—"

A pair of hands on her shoulders stopped her. So distressed was she by what she was saying that Katherine did not notice Lord Weller had risen until he caught her gently and put an end to her pacing. She looked up at him and saw the change that had come about him. Though he remained calm, his eyes were hard and his face was creased with a frown.

"You were sworn to silence," he said. "Why do you tell me this?"

Katherine shook her head miserably. "Because if I did not, I would have told Prince Wolfram," she said.

Lord Weller frowned severely.

In her distress, Katherine wondered if he even believed her. What was she but the daughter of a minor nobleman? She was not even of aristocratic blood. She had no business accusing His Majesty of such things without a shred of physical evidence to support her assumptions. Certainly it was a compromising situation she'd found the King in, but that didn't mean things were quite as she assumed. Perhaps she'd merely jumped to all the wrong conclusions.

But the more she memory plagued her, the more certain she became. Katherine put this certainty into her gaze, so that there might be no question as to the validity of her statement. Lord Weller _must _believe her.

But why? What good was telling him going to do?

Perhaps it was that she hoped he could resolve the situation before Prince Wolfram became aware.

Perhaps it was that she couldn't bear to keep her suspicions a secret any longer, and Lord Weller was the only one she trusted not to use the information to his advantage.

"Tell no one of this," he said. His voice was firm.

Katherine nodded quickly.

"What will you do?" she asked.

Lord Weller released her shoulders and returned to the side table to pour a second goblet of wine. He took a long drink.

"I will speak with the King," he said.

* * *

><p>Elsewhere in the castle that same evening, in a room just beyond the royal residential hall, passed a pair of alert guards and a securely locked door, Lady Elise von Mannheim knelt upon the floor in her washroom and proceeded to release the contents of her stomach into the chamberpot.<p>

When she was done, she wiped her mouth, put a hand to her belly, and laughed.

**TBC...**


End file.
